


Autopilot

by whipperschnapper



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Asexual Character, Blasphemy, Blow Jobs, Body Modification, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Homophobia, Humor, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Punk!Marco, Smut, Swearing, Transphobia, Underage Drinking, trans!Armin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-21 11:33:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 85,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3690681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whipperschnapper/pseuds/whipperschnapper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A/N: I really like this fic, and I'm more than grateful for the love and support it's gotten since I started writing, but I'm afraid I won't be continuing this one. Maybe in a while, when I have the whole plot figured out, a revamped version will hit the stacks. Thank you all so much for reading!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Malum Initium

I don't like roller coasters. I never have, never _will,_ and for some fucking odd reason, the universe has cursed me with some pretty fucking poor judgement skills when it comes to picking friends.

Yeah. Great combination, I know.

The problem with roller coasters is you always  _feel_ super pumped and cocky on the way there, gloating about how many times you've been on the ride, saying that you're used to it. Some shit in there about how the rocking motions basically lull you to sleep at this point, that you're used to it.

Then you're next in line and you silently realize that you're still anxious.

You swallow it down as clammy moisture builds in your palms and your knees start to shake, all the while keeping up your little facade. You don't remember all the gory details, only that you _are_ nervous and don't want to go anymore, until you and your buddies are strapped in and the conductor is giving their little spiel about keeping your hands in the vehicle at all times and remain seated until the car comes to a complete stop and  _don't forget to enjoy the fucking ride, you ass!_

Then your heart flies into your throat and it's suddenly a whole lot harder to breathe up here and this is the longest two minutes and twenty-six seconds of your life and you scream and scream until it finally bubbles and warps into a laugh and there's a certain adrenaline high that comes after the coaster stops and you stumble off, feeling like you're going to collapse any second because your guts are still trying to find their rightful places in your body and your bones have gellatinized into nothing but a wobbly mess. You and your friends laugh, insisting you weren't scared for a minute and you believe yourself again until the next ride comes along and the cycle begins again.

This shit happens to you, unless you are me. Then you're sitting on one of the scummy benches outside the gates for the next twenty minutes with your head in your hands and an empty popcorn bucket between your knees and a vile taste in your mouth. And your friends are off dicking around somewhere else until you decide to join them again because _you are a grown-ass_   _man, dammit, and you ain't about to hold your friends back because of a little motion sickness._

Trost had exactly one amusement park, namely Lagoona Beach, or just Lagoon for short. Basically the trashy, less populated, sad version of Disneyland. But, again, it was all we had.

In a last hoorah of sorts, my small group of friends decided to go the last week before the start of the college semester. Connie was going into Criminal Psychology, joining Armin, the double major and mega-nerd in Business and Biology at Rose Tech. Sasha, who was leaning toward something in the culinary arts but still deciding, was with me at Trost U. I hadn't thought on a major at all, only thinking of getting general ed out of the way and bumping up my GPA, but I wanted to sneak an art class or two in there on the way to make things more interesting for myself.

I'm already nervous before we even file out of Connie's little car. An all-day pass is only about thirty dollars per person which, considering it's to the only amusement park in the city as well as the next ten over in any direction, is nothing. I just stare at the dark blue admission stamp ink bleeding into the cracks in the light skin on my wrist as Sasha and Connie argue over which end of the park to start at. I can feel Armin's sympathetic eyes on me, but don't bother looking at him.

"We should start on the east side and work west so we can get to the Ferris wheel by the time it's dark!" Sasha insists enthusiastically, pointing to one of the tiny landmarks on the creased map in Connie's hand's.

"I think we should start  _by_ the Ferris wheel so we can be right next to the water rides when it starts getting hot," Connie counters. His finger slides over the map, "And we can always use the Sky-coaster to get back to the rides on the west side when it starts cooling off."

"We can skip the water rides! Do you know how crowded they'll be? We should go on something else while the lines are filling up and the others aren't as busy."

"There is no way I am letting you skip the water rides!"

"I'm wearing a tank top, Connie, "

"So am I," 

"Yeah, but you don't have boobs to worry about!"

They continue on and on like that before Armin finally breaks them up and works out something that involves us splitting up and meeting somewhere in the middle before taking one last ride on the Ferris wheel tonight (it's kind of a tradition between us all).

We split up and Sasha and I make our way to the Sky-coaster, this little gondola-like ride stretching over the lengths of Lagoon to take patrons from one side to the other, or just give parents a few minutes of quiet before their little kids start complaining about sore feet or being bored or wanting one of the prizes the vendors have out on display. I rest my arms on the restraints and look at the tiny buildings and streets below us, counting all the lost shoes and stuffed animals collected on the roofs as they slowly pass under our feet. The air's clearer up here than anywhere else in the park, the warm smell of cotton candy and roasted cinnamon almonds wafting up to us in the breeze.

"How are you feeling?" Sasha asks, breaking into my thoughts and I lose count of the shoes at eleven. I look at her a moment before sitting up and sighing, looking up at the tiny umbrella above us and finding designs in the white textured metal. I spot something in the top right corner that looks like a fire-breathing dragon, but if I squint and tilt my head to the side a little, it turns into a happily barking dog with pointy ears. I'm not sure which image I prefer, honestly.

"All right, I guess," I roll my head to the side to look at her with a small smirk, "Dad still doesn't know, though," The Sky-coaster halts suddenly like it does sometimes when someone is slow getting on or off and we're suspended in the air like that for a moment, bouncing slightly on the taught cords holding our car in the air. The motion makes my stomach squelch uncomfortably. 

"Are you planning on coming out to him before you move out?" She angles herself to face me, pulling her long, tan legs out from between the restraints and the seat and folding them against her chest.

My eyes go wide and I look incredulous at her, "Hell fucking no! He'd kill me if he knew! He'd kill anyone he thought was tainting me in any way!" I sigh and pull my hands into my lap. "As far as good ol' Daddy-o knows, I'm only focused on a college degree right now." With a jolt that makes my head snap back a little, the Sky-coaster resumes its casual descent to the other side of the park.

"Well," Sasha puts her legs back down as we get closer to the point of getting off. She skips next to me, following my lead of taking a few steps forward to keep from falling on her face as the coaster rounds the corner on its track to scoop up the next group waiting to go to the opposite side of the park. "Just know that if times get rough with your Pap, you can always stay with me in my dorm. I'm sure my roommates won't mind if I explain something," We make our way slowly to the first ride and I feel my stomach do a little flip-flop.

A shrug is the only response she gets from me.

I really hope I can keep my breakfast down today, for everyone's sake.

* * *

Surprisingly enough, I manage to hold my own until we meet back up with Armin and Connie, both of the latter soaking wet as they slosh next to us. Armin's sneakers squeak obnoxiously. Connie chases Sasha until he finally seizes one of her wrists and pulls her back to him, Sasha fighting half-heartedly with a big smile, and giving her the biggest hug he can, permeating her whole side with water. He has the good sense to stay away from me when I give him a dangerous look.

I manage to go on nearly all the rides with my group, pausing only once or twice to let my stomach find its rightful place out of my throat. No one protests too much, letting me hold phones and, in Armin's case, a small backpack with water bottles and granola bars inside (what a fucking boy scout). It isn't until the sun is starting it's slow descent behind the western mountains separating Trost from the rest of the world that Connie starts getting more and more restless with my weak stomach.

"Honestly, Jean, it's getting late enough that if you _do_ get sick we can just call it a night, it's no big deal." He sips at the remaining contents of a bright blue Slurpee and looks at me with half-lidded, indifferent eyes. His lips and teeth are stained an unpleasant blue-green, and I lift the corner of my mouth distastefully.

I smirk and remain planted where I am on the bench, folding my arms. "Have you considered that I just don't like throwing up? It's disgusting." My legs ache from walking around all day and the back of my neck burns slightly from the beginnings of a sunburn. I really am tired, and probably wouldn't go on anything even if the threat of me visual burping on everyone in a two-foot radius _didn't_ exist.

Connie rolls his eyes and throws his empty cup away. He parks it right next to me, throwing both arms over his head to rest on the back the bench and letting Sasha come up next to pester me.

"Sasha," Armin starts before she can, "Why don't you just leave Jean alone? He's obviously not moving," He gives me a shy, sympathetic grin from behind her.

"Yeah, Sasha, why don't you leave me alone?" I pucker my lip pathetically, but it does nothing to deter the indignant rage in her eyes.

Sasha folds her arms tight across her chest and juts her hip out stubbornly, "Because this is probably the last time we're all going to be together to do something like this. We start school in less than two weeks and between different majors  _and_ different schools we're probably not going to see each other in the same place for a while," Her face turns pleading, "Just come on the ride, Jean? Please? For me?" Her fingers lace together and she gives me her best puppy-dog eyes. "You've been doing so well today, too!"

I groan, looking away. I have a weak spot for brown eyes and hers just about kill me. "No,"

 _"Please?"_ Sasha whines and she takes a small step toward me, "Just this one ride?"

"Nuh-uh,"

 _"Jean!"_ I swear I can see crocodile tears welling in her eyes and want to punch myself in the fucking mouth.

"...No,"

"There was hesitation,"  _Shit._ She caught the break in my resolve and I have to look away before she crushes my will entirely.

"I'm not going." I set my jaw and fold my arms like some kind of child, but Sasha isn't backing down.

She grabs my shoulders and forces me to look at her. At her caramel brown eyes that will be the fucking _death_ of me. "Please, Jean?" All traces of playing are gone and she's looking at me with true, sincere begging.

I stare at her for only about a second more before I can't fucking take it anymore, sighing and looking away. "Fine," I grumble and stand. The happy little kiss she plants on my cheek does little to comfort me.

My decision is regretted instantaneously when I see the ride Sasha is towing me right up to. The Samurai is absolutely the  _worst_ ride I have  _ever_ been on in my entire _life_ and my stomach decides at that very moment to take a nice detour out my ass, leaving nothing but a gaping hole in its midst. I gulp and try to back out, but with Sasha flanked on one side and Connie on the other, I'm practically dragged right up to my immanent demise.

"No backing out now, buddy, there's a line behind you," Connie simpers with narrowed eyes and a smug little grin on his smug little face, and I have to shove my fists in my pockets to keep from shoving them down his throat. 

The Samurai is one of the older rides and is shut down most days. A long lever with chimney-sweep-style rows of seats (the whole thing's shaped like some kind of wire-whisk) rotates in a sickly circular motion. The seats rock back and forth so fast the only thing you can focus on is your nose because you start going cross-eyed after about thirty seconds of torture. Sandals are banned from the ride because they've had issues with people in line getting hit in the face with lost shoes, and it was built closest to the parking lot in case someone was flung from the tidal monstrosity and had to be taken in an ambulance.

Okay, I made that part up, but it's totally plausible.

I still try to get out of riding until the safety restraint comes down on me and I'm officially trapped.

There are five seats per row, and passengers are seated shortest to tallest, so I'm forced to sit next to some random single rider guy with tattered jeans and a black denim vest over a grey T-shirt. I try not to let him see how bad my hands are shaking when he looks over at me because holy _hell,_ even with freckles and wide, round eyes this guy is intimidating. I can see a lip ring in the right corner of his mouth and cringe internally. Great. He's gonna kill me if I even  _think_ of puking on him.

"First time riding?" Punk-rock death-machine asks in a conversational way, and the conductor goes through her little announcements in the most bored-out-of-my-mind voice. The lower part of his jaw and part of his shoulder are the only things I can see of him through the small space between the bright red restraints and the seat. 

I clamp my mouth shut and go for just shaking my head, gripping the handle bars at my sides 'til my knuckles are white.

The guy laughs at me, the ass, and just says simply, "Scream loud," And if I wasn't absolutely positive he could beat me to a quivering pulp, I might've hit him.

There's a great shudder and a loud, mechanical hiss and then the ground it gone beneath me, my feet dangling in front of me like two soggy noodles. A high whine escapes my throat and I rest my head back against the seat, screwing my eyes shut and trying to breathe deep, breathe deep, breathe deep. Gravity shifts to the right and I'm forced to the left and a small breeze hits my cold, clammy skin. 

The mechanical hiss turns into a mechanical whir and vibrates through my seat and my stomach presses into my throat as our seats begin to spin, dipping back just barely before rolling forward in an air-borne somersault. I feel hot and cold all at the same time, every limb shaking as I try not to scream like a fucking pansy. My whole body tenses like I'm being electrocuted and the first wave of nausea hits me after only three more spins.

"Shit," I hiss and slap my hand over my mouth, nails digging into my cheek. My eyes stay closed, head pressed against my seat as I try to keep my stomach and all its contents from bursting out of my mouth. It obeys me for a little while before another somersault, this one going backwards, causes it to lurch right into my throat. At least, I  _thought_ it was my stomach until something explodes from my mouth and my shirt is suddenly hot and wet.

My whole brain goes blank for a moment and my throat burns. I hadn't eaten that much so I don't vomit for very long, but vomit is vomit no matter how little there is, and the creamy color is still off-putting. Also stomach acid is a thing that kills you from the inside out and was probably the Devil's idea.

The ride stops after only a few more moments and the restraints are lifted from me. I cough and wipe my mouth on my sleeve, swallowing the taste in my mouth against a gagging motion in my throat. I lean forward again just in case more comes up, breathing deep against the shaking in my limbs and keeping my head down because puking in public is pretty fucking embarrassing. I crook my arms, resting elbows on my thighs and steeple my fingers behind my neck to make breathing easier, and get the world to stop moving.

God, I'm really pissed off.

"Um, Jean?" It's Connie.

"If I got puke on you, you only have yourself to blame," I grumble and sniff, wiping my runny nose and not bothering to look at him.

"No," He hesitates, "No, it's not that,"

I look up at him, Sasha, and Armin, daring any of them to say something, _anything,_ that would make me feel like any less an ass than right now. But they're all looking just past me with identical, horrified expressions. I can feel all color (well, remaining color) slip from my face as a broken chorus of _Eee_ _w_ 's breaks out from the crowd still in line and the girl operating the Samurai sighs and leaves her post, looking only a _little bit_ mad that she has to clean up my mess. I cringe, looking behind me at what I know is there, but hating it and anticipating that it isn't nonetheless.

The guy next to me, Punk-rock death-machine with a really, _really_ nice fucking jaw that could cut diamonds I swear to God, who I now see has two piercings above his right eyebrow and one hanging from his septum, sighs and wipes vomit (my _fucking_ vomit) off the side of his mouth. His whole chest is almost completely covered in the milky fluid and he looks at me with wicked brown eyes. His body is tense in that way when you have to hug a distant relative with questionable hygiene and you're trying to keep from touching yourself again until after a long shower. His hands are in tight fists.

I swallow loudly, the burning in my throat completely forgotten. "Dear God," I choke and I swear my measly life flashes before my eyes.

* * *

"I-I'm really sorry," I mumble weakly for what seems like the umpteenth time in less that half an hour. I shrug out of my sweatshirt, folding it in half and looping it over my shoulder. "I'll buy you a new shirt to make up for it. I promise," The smell of vomit still hangs pungently in the air around us and it only pounds harder on my self-esteem.

"Is this how you make friends?" Punk-rock death-machine asks me. His voice isn't as gruff or angry as I thought it would be and I silently count my blessings. We walk back to the little gift shop just across the street from the Samurai and I feel like a gelatinous worm, body still a little shaky from the after effects of my technicolor yawn. "Puking on someone and then buying them a shirt as a consolation prize?" He gives me a good-natured grin with a stark eyebrow that I don't return, "And do you mind?"

"Hah?" I look at him again just as he unzips his still vomit-covered vest and peels it from the most beautiful chest I've ever seen, complete with deeply tanned skin and a slight dusting of freckles, carrying the black and grey fabric at his side. Jesus Christ Almighty, I threw up on a fucking  _god,_  strike me down and kill me now.

I lead the way into the gift shop in humiliation, shoulders hunched tight to my neck like the scraggly loser I am, and saunter to the shirt section. "No price limit," I sigh, feeling my blood boil under my skin with new-found embarrassment at looking at him again. Jesus, you could wash clothes on those fucking abs. "Just pick the one you want," My face started burning the moment I walked through the doors and I deftly grab a water bottle to wash the vile taste from my mouth. I grab a small tin of mints as well because...puke-breath.

The guy grabs an alarmingly red sweatshirt with "Lagoon" printed across the front in large, white letters. Good. Spoil yourself with my money so I don't feel so bad. "So, do you have a name? Or do you prefer 'Puke-boy'?" He raises a stark, pierced eyebrow at me again, and I look away. _  
_

I grab a sweatshirt for myself, preferring  _not_ to smell like vomit the rest of the night. It's the same design as the one Punk-rock death-machine chose, only mine is a dark green. And a size smaller. "Uh," I begin lamely, "My name's Jean."

We put our stuff on the counter and the girl rings it up breathlessly. Good to know I'm not the only one affected by freckled fucking Adonis over here.

"Marco," He says next to me.

"Polo," I reply out of reflex, a little dazed as I give him his shirt.

"What?" We start walking out of the store, and the guy is looking at me. "No, that's my name!" He laughs and, holy god, is that a tongue piercing? Sweet mercy.

I'm so weak.

I'm surprised I haven't spontaneously combusted at this point, "Oh, sorry," I blame the fact that I'm flirtatiously challenged on my vomit-breath.

"It's cool," Marco brushes off and pulls his new sweatshirt over his head, and oh, my _God,_ his hair gets all mussed up and there's this coon-tail feather extension behind his left ear and it's sticking out slightly, Jesus  _fuck._

I'm  _so fucking_ weak.

I open my water bottle and fill my cheeks, swishing water around in my mouth before spitting into the grass. I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand. "Sorry again for throwing up on you..."  _And for being a lame piece of trash and for even existing in your presence._

I'm only really surprised when Marco quirks a half smile at me. "Getting puked on sucked ass, but at least I got a shirt out of it," He rubs the fabric over his chest endearingly and I feel like an angel of mercy has just socked me in the face. My frown is covered with another swig of water, but not before Marco sees it. "I could spit on you if it would make you feel any better,"

 _Swapping spit would actually make me feel_ a lot  _better._

Oh my,  _god,_ Jean, stop it!

I almost laugh at his suggestion, but a quick glance at his face shows he isn't joking in the slightest.

"It's really fine, Jean. I'm sure you didn't mean it." He looks at me for another moment before a smile finally cracks his features again. "Besides, I saw the way you looked at me scared shit-less on that ride."

I'm quite positive my face is  _actually_ on fire. I try to cover it up by tipping the small mint tin in my palm and chucking every last fucking Altoid in my mouth, but not before saying, "I thought you were gonna kill me." I admit it to him with a weak smile that makes my lips tremble.

Marco laughs, loud and vibrant, "No, no y'see, Johnny-boy, I already have two strikes. One more and I'm in the hole for life," He elbows me playfully, (I honestly don't know if he's joking or not) making my arm tingle. "And apology accepted. All of them,"

I suck my mints, probably looking like an ass. "...thanks,"

My phone buzzes then. It's Armin.

_**From: Armin** _

_Hey, we're all done with the Ferris wheel. Sasha and Connie are hungry so we'll meet you at the front gates in a few minutes._

My face falls slightly and I look back at Marco. "I...have to go," 

He smiles at me, the piercing on in his lip glinting in the light of one of the many street lamps surrounding us. "Goodnight, Jean," He says softly and I almost don't want to leave, but I remember how big of a loser that would make me if I asked him for his number.

"Bye," I choke out and scurry away, suddenly unable to run fast enough from him.

My phone buzzes again.

_**From: Armin** _

_Did you die??_

The wind nips at my arms and I put my sweatshirt on over my T-shirt, stealing one final look at Marco in the receding light. His back is turned and he's walking in the other direction with his hands in the front pockets of his torn jeans, but I still catch the green and blue of the extensions behind his ear, the stupid carnival-style lights flashing and giving him four and five shadows at a time. I'm almost sad I'll never see him again before turning around and messaging Armin back.

_**To: Armin** _

_no i didnt die_

Far from it, actually. 


	2. Academia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> College starts and Jean gets a surprise in one of his classes.

"So, what happened?"

"Did he punch you?"

"You look worse than when you got off the ride; were you sick again?"

Sasha and Connie bludgeon me with questions the second I'm in their sights, and even Armin can't hide a look of curiosity. I just shrug and walk with them through the parking lot. I'm searching for Connie's car, but my silence doesn't stop them, unfortunately.

"Did you buy yourself a sweatshirt? I hope you got one for him, too, or that would be a dick move," Sasha pokes at the white vinyl across my chest, sidestepping to keep up with me.

"Would you really put it past him, Sash?" Connie mutters on my other side and they both snicker.  _Don't let it get to you, Jean. Be strong for the sake your remaining dignity._ "He probably asked for his number, too,"

_Be strong._

"Did you get his name at least?"

"Please tell me you didn't get sick again,"

_Strong._

"Did you use _any_ form of communication, or just stand there like a total dweeb?"

"Oh, my  _god_ do you two ever  _shut up?"_  I whirl on Connie and Sasha and they flinch, but the shit-eating grins are right back on their faces in a matter of seconds. "It's your fault this shit happened to me in the first place!" My face is burning like hell, and I honestly just want to forget this whole debacle ever happened, crawl under a rock or find a cave and live there for the rest of my days. A street lamp overhead sputters and flashes, humming obnoxiously loud and it makes me madder than before. I really feel like punching something, but I try to breathe deep instead.

"Jean, calm down," Armin says next to me and I feel his hand on my shoulder. I resist the strong urge to shake him off and push him away; he's only trying to help, after all, and I've already made a big enough fool of myself tonight. "You don't want to strain your throat right now."

Connie laughs and an image of me strangling him right in this goddamn, scummy fucking parking lot flashes momentarily through my head. "We're just curious, man, take a pill," His thumb digs into the little modem on his key-chain and I hear his car chirp somewhere to to right. I follow the sound. "We were all worried you were gonna end up gutted like a fish. We just want to know what happened."

"Yeah," Sasha agrees, the obnoxious tone gone from her voice.

"Uh-huh, you were so worried that you left me for the fucking Ferris wheel," I grumble under my breath and spot Connie's car, the dark green paint reflecting the flashing lights behind us. Armin and I file into the back seat, and I'm grateful for the space he gives me. The ride home is a silent one until we get on the freeway and Sasha then whips around to face me.

"So, do you know his name or not?"

I huff, still looking out the window, but I'm too tired to argue anymore. "Marco," I look at her, "And he didn't threaten me at all. He was actually pretty cool about the whole thing." I give a little shrug, letting my confusion show.

"Ooh, this is good!" Sasha laughs and leans a little closer, "Did you work your flirt game, then?"

I give her a withering look, "I threw up on the guy, Sasha," _God, cut me some slack. I don't think with my dick_ that  _much._ "I'm not going to flirt with him. He probably wasn't even gay to begin with. And it's not like I'm going to see him again, anyway."  _Sadly._

"Ehh," Connie intones from the front seat, still looking at the road ahead, "Something tells me that isn't true,"

I raise an eyebrow. "The 'gay' part or the 'never gonna see him again' part?"

"Both,"

My eyes narrow and I'm suddenly suspicious. "Why do you say that?"

Connie's shoulders hug his neck in a small shrug and he merges left into the H.O.V lane before answering. "I don't know. There was just this look about him that screamed 'I'm definitely not straight'. I think it was the piercings."

"He did have his right ear pierced," Sasha provides like it's some glorious feat.

"Yeah," I scoff, "and the rest of his face. One pierced ear does not a gay man make,"

"I have to agree with Jean on that," Armin pipes up next to me and I give him a satisfied nod.

We continue arguing over the probability of one man being gay until Connie turns off his headlights and drives down the street silently before pulling up to the front of my house. Armin was generous enough to give me his little string bag to put my dirty sweatshirt in, so I at least didn't have to walk around with that in my hand like some prize goose. All the lights are off, but I'm not dumb enough to think my Dad doesn't have some secret security system hooked up so I unlock the front door and slide inside, giving Connie and company a small wave as they slowly drive off.

The entire house is dark and suffocating and I manage feel my way upstairs to my room without tripping and falling on my face. My shirt and Armin's bag go into the hamper as well as my pants and basically everything other than the green sweatshirt I got tonight. I brush my teeth, debating on just getting into the shower all together. It's only 10:30 and it's not like I'm one of those jackasses that sits and ponders the purpose of life for forty minutes after washing my hair.

I go for the shower, leaving my shirt out on the bed. My legs are still shaky from puking earlier, but the warm water helps with my aching muscles. I'm out in less than ten minutes.

There still isn't anyone around when I hobble back to my room with a towel around my waist. That's strange, Dad's usually a pretty light sleeper and he definitely would have heard water come on at least. I tip-toe it down the hall and peek into his and Mom's room. I can't make out more that one lump on the bed, which I assume is Mom, but I can't tell.

"You're home early,"

The high-pitched yelp that escapes me is completely on purpose, to show my Dad just how silent he is. I whirl on him, closing the door to his room as quietly as possible. He's staring down at me with his arms folded, but I've gotten that stance enough to know I'm in no trouble. Just an intimidation tactic.

"We got bored and the lines were too long," I whisper up at him, noting the door to his study is creaked open and a dim light is shining in the hallway. I wonder how long he's going to be up tonight. Probably a few more hours at least; he has to deal with some lawsuit right now or something. I'm not sure though, if it's him suing someone, or someone suing him. Could be both, but probably not.

A deep sound resonates in Dad's chest, and I take note of the disheveled-ness of his pale hair and the bags under his eyes. Maybe he's the one being sued. "Hmm," He grumbles. "Did you have fun?" He rubs his chin and his fingers scratch against a faint line of stubble on his jaw.

I try to keep my tone light, "Yeah, I guess. It got really cold tonight, though." I don't mention that I still get sick on roller coasters. 

"Good," Dad rumbles and looks over his shoulder back to the study impatiently, "that's good," It's silent for a moment, hella awkward, and I break it with a totally fake yawn.

"I guess I should get to bed,"

Dad nods and I tread back to my room, trying to make my movements slow and sluggish with my fake exhaustion. I close my door, slamming off the light and walking blindly to my bed. It's too hot to sleep with the covers on, but it's a universally known truth that monsters can't get you if you have at least your sheets on you, and there is no chance in hell some scummy-ass demon is possessing my hot ass tonight. I pull the cool fabric up to my chin and bury my face in my pillow.

I don't realize the way I have my head turned into the collar of my shirt, inhaling deeply the faint smell of popcorn and sweat from earlier, until I'm past all judgement and falling deep into the blackness of sleep.

* * *

There's something about walking on a college campus that makes you a little more reserved and self conscious. With high school, you already know all the morons there, and it's free education so a lot of them are being forced to go anyway. University you have to pay for, and no matter how tired and dirty the people are, there's a sense of respect you hold for them because they  _want_ to be here (mostly). It makes you think twice before doing something stupid. At least, that's how I feel walking onto campus.

The first thing I notice is how  _big_ everything is. Instead of just one building, there are multiple, each one serving a different purpose. Dorm rooms are on the east side of campus, lecture halls to the north. Math and science buildings are grouped together with Art and English next to the student center on the other side.

I have Science first, Chemistry, then Statistics, an hour and a half break for lunch or something, and Art. 

The Math and Science building is the largest, English and Art being a close second. Inside reminds me of a dentist's office, complete with that nasty sterilized smell and a bout of nerves hitting me right in the gut. I find my hall easily enough and sit somewhere in the middle, but the room is mostly empty save for about ten other  people. I mess around on my phone until class starts, reading through the syllabus and taking a few notes on chemical bonds.

A pretty girl with red hair and a light shade of freckles sits next to me, and I'm briefly reminded of Marco. She's nice and seems well put together; she tells me her name is Hanna and we exchange greetings.

The bell trills and I make it to Stats, holding the campus map in one hand and waving goodbye to Hanna with the other. Stats is in one of the larger halls on the north side of the building. I sit down without looking at anyone and pull a highlighter from my bag, knowing I'm going to need it for how fucking big this syllabus is and rub my eyes, groaning internally that I have to take this stupid-ass class. Again.

I failed the course I took in high school.

I sit up and look at the ceiling, clicking my highlighter on the desk before I chance a look at the slow, gusty filter of people walking in. Most of them are dead-eyed zombies that I don't recognize, upperclassmen. I start assigning names to a few of them, just for kicks; the tall bulky one with only a textbook looking at your phone? You, sir, are now named Lorenzo. Crazy-eyes with a calculator and short brown hair? Hmm, Poppy. No. No, Pepper suits you more. Punk dude with a grown-out mohawk and bright red 'Lagoon' shirt? You're new name is--

_Holy shit._

I flop down on my desk, bending far over so I'm hidden behind the row in front of me and receive an odd look from a girl behind me, hoping like hell Marco didn't see me. I wait a moment before daring a glance up to see if he's sit down yet. Just as he turns his head to look  _right at me._

_Lord, kill me now._

He doesn't recognize me at first, skimming right over my face before doing a double take. My face is on fire, everything is on fire as Marco stands there and squints before pointing a little at me with this wow-what-a-crazy-random-happenstance look on his face before (heaven strike me, please, I beg you) trotting right over and plopping down next to me. I chew violently as the inside of my cheek as he comes, trying to keep my head from blowing up. Jeez, why does this shit have to happen to me?

"Hey, Jean!" Marco chirps just  _chipper as ever!_ He gives me this innocent grin like we're long lost friends. "I didn't know you were a student here?" I just about die when he starts pulling out a pen and notebook from his backpack. Don't sit next to me! Leave me alone! Let me be a loser in peace!

I'm so caught up in being angry that I forget I'm supposed to answer. I cough a little before choking out a weak, "Yeah,"

Marco chuckles a bit. "Well, it's good to know I know at least one person in here," he gestures to his desk, "Hope you don't mind me sitting next to you."

"It's," _Would it really fucking matter if I did?_   "It's fine," I can't help staring at his shirt, the same shirt I bought him and he notices my noticing.

"Yeah," Marco says just as the professor walk in and the lecture begins, and his voice is soft, quiet, "Is it weird that this is my favorite shirt now? We should coordinate as a joke one day." He labels the corner of his page with the date, jotting down an entire line of things I hadn't even realized the professor was saying. I go back to my own work, struggling to catch everything and write it down. My head feels like a swarm of angry bees is buzzing all around and I struggle to listen past the commotion. 

"Sure," I mumble halfheartedly.

Marco responds with nothing more than a small smile and a hum. He seems caught up in his own little world of math terms and assignment dates and I find it hard not to stare. Especially when the dark metal above his eyebrow glints and winks at me every time he turns his head; and he's wearing these torn jeans similar to the one's he wore at Lagoon that give me tiny glimpses of the skin on his legs. And there's this one rip at the middle of his thigh that's particularly teasing...

I manage after a while, though.

I'm scribbling down the formula for something in probability when Marco interrupts me. "That should be written with Sigma," He says softly, breaking my train of thought. "Alpha's for confidence intervals and t-models."

I freeze, not really knowing what he's talking about before chancing a glance at Marco's own notes. His handwriting is bad--like, really bad--but the formula sits confidently at the center of the page, surrounded by a small margin of space. It's identical to mine, only, instead of an O with a line slashed through it, Marco's has a weird looking capital E. I debate just ignoring it before striking a line through my own formula and copying down Marco's. "Thanks," I mutter.

"No problem,"

The rest of the lecture carries on in silence and my face is burning for no reason. Well, there  _is_ a reason. Marco's flipping hot that's reason enough, but he's just sitting there, taking his notes like a model student, while I'm over here keeping my dick in check. He barely ever looks at me, and when he does, it's just a fleeting moment of his eyes scanning the classroom around us before landing on me for a split second and going right back to his notes. God, I wish I had his resolve. Or his obliviousness, whichever it is.

The bell in here seems a lot louder than my last class and I flinch loudly in my seat. Marco finishes up his writing, closes his notebook and gently slides it into his backpack. "What do you have next?" He asks, standing.

"Umm,"  _Eloquent as ever, Jean._ "I, uh, actually have lunch,"

Marco adjusts the single strap on his shoulder, "Wanna go out with me?"

I just about choke on my tongue, covering the sound I make with a cough. "Hm?" I swear I see the flash of a smile on his face, but I look away too fast to be positive.

"Wanna go out with me? To lunch?"  _Oh, My God._ "I'm done with classes today, but I don't want to go home yet." Marco steps aside to let someone past before looking back at me for an answer.

"Um," I tear my eyes away and close my notes, getting up from my seat and facing him, trying to keep my cool. "Sure, yeah,"

Marco smiles a little, "Awesome," and leads the way out of the hall and I scramble to keep up with his long-legged stride. "Do you like Chinese?"

 _Fuck yes I like Chinese!_ "Yeah,"

The smile grows, "Then it's set,"

We walk off campus together and talk on the way to a tiny Mom & Pop place in an only slightly shady area; it's a total hole in the wall. Conversation would have been awkward had I been the one to initiate it, but Marco fires off question after question with barely any hesitation.

"Do you have a major?"

 _Punk Theory, ma-boy, and you are one_ fine  _specimen._ "I'm thinking Art,"

Marco nods, "Art as a whole, or, like, something specific like sculpting or painting?"

The Chinese place has a different smell than I'm used to, though not unpleasant. Tangy, and gingery. "Uh, I'm mostly just doing my generals at this point, but I'm thinking of going into animation," I shrug, "Mostly cartoon stuff, I guess,"

"Nice," Marco smiles and I just about die right there. His dimples are beautiful. "I look forward to seeing your name in a Disney movie someday,"

Oh, god that hit a nerve and oh,  _god_ what a good nerve to hit. I've dreamed of working for Disney since being a Freshman in high school (I mean, is there an artist who hasn't? Really?). The smile that tugs on my face is unintentional, but I don't try to hide it.

"Do you like fried rice?"

I shake my head free of any lingering daydreams before coughing and nodding. My face feels hot again, but it's hot in here so I'm not sure if it's my raging hormones or the actual temperature. "Yeah,"

Marco gets orange chicken and rice, and I pitch in for drinks and pot stickers (I'll go to my grave before being a freeloader) and we carry the warm Styrofoam boxes out and across the street to a Starbucks with a few round tables set up outside. It's hot today, but the sun is hidden behind a giant array of white, fluffy clouds so it isn't unbearable. It actually feels nice with my thin jacket on.

"Hey, will you watch this for a moment?" Marco slings his backpack onto the table, "I need to go to the bathroom,"

I just nod. "Yeah, sure,"

"Thanks," He goes inside and I'm left by myself with two giant boxes of Chinese food and another man's backpack.

Wait. Oh, god, does this mean we're friends? Marco obviously at least likes me a little or he wouldn't invite me to lunch, and he trusts me enough to not run off with his stuff. That's gotta mean something, right?

Then again, Marco could probably kill my if I ever stole from him. Not that I would.

I'm still smiling like a moron when he returns. He sits right in front of me and grabs his food. We eat in silence for about 20 seconds before I ask, "So, have you majored?"

Marco looks up from his food and grins, swallowing, and I watch his Adam's apple bob up and down with the motion. "Aviation and piloting," He says.

My heart sinks (he's smart, too?!) but I cover it up with faux-surprise, "Really. L-like flying planes?"

Marco nods, sipping his drink. He's cute and nice and all, but he likes Pepsi. I briefly wonder how tragic his life is without taste buds. Poor guy. "But the classes are...really boring to say the least." He sighs. "And I won't get to fly until I'm actually in a Piloting school."

"Impressive," I quirk a half smile at him, "Maybe when I'm working for Disney, you could...fly me around the world."

Marco smiles before looking down, the grin growing wider and his eyebrow raising mischievously. "Only if you bring your barf-bag,"

The gasp I emit has me almost choking on the piece of chicken in my mouth, coughing and sputtering as tears well in my eyes and I swear I can feel a chunk of meat get stuck in one of my fucking lungs. My faces goes red and I cough into my elbow, remembering my fucking manners 'cause I'm a goddamn gentleman. I don't realize how hard Marco's laughing until his hand strikes my back and he's offered my Dr. Pepper to me.

"Didn't think you'd react so strongly, Jean," He laughs and I try to fix my breathing. "You okay?" My back burns from where he has his hand presses tenderly and I'm glad my face is already such a bright crimson or this would be pretty awkward.

"I'm  _jolly,"_   I choke, giving Marco a halfhearted, very sarcastic thumbs up. _"Never better!"_

Marco laughs a little more, wiping a stray tear from his eye, "Sorry if I offended you, by the way,"

I smirk and shake my head, finally starting to recover. "Nah, you didn't. It's my fault anyway," I shrug.

"I don't think puking is ever a single person's fault," Marco's eyebrow raises and the black silver winks at me again. "I think it's safe to blame it on motion sickness."

"Or poor judgement skills," I mutter into my Dr. Pepper before taking a sip.

"What?"

"...My friends talked my into going on the ride,"

Marco smirks a little, taking a bite of his food, "Some friends," I only give him a mildly exasperated look in return, sighing hugely. "I wouldn't question it if you just blamed them instead, then."

The sun decides to break through the clouds at that very moment and I have to squint slightly from how bright it is. My phone tings in my pocket and I pull it out. Just and email, but a quick glance at the clock shows that my next class starts in eight minutes. "Shit!" Marco flinches next to me, "S-sorry. My my next class is about to start. I gotta go," I stand and start to grab my leftover food to throw away.

Marco waves his hand with a small smile. "Leave it. I'll get it for you."

I put it down. I don't have time to argue. "Thanks,"

"But, Jean," Marco motions me over with his finger. I walk around the table curiously, albeit a little wary. He takes my right hand in his and places it palm up on the table. I don't even notice the purple pen in his hand until he's using it to write up the length of the inside of my thumb. "Text me sometime. We should hang out," He releases my hand gently.

I stare at the numbers for a moment. I'm frozen.

"You're gonna be late, Jean," Marco laughs.

I look for a moment longer before shifting my eyes back to Marco, nodding a bit. "See you later,"

I run back to campus as quick as I can. The purple ink is smudged a little when I sit down for class and I quickly save the number to my phone with a big, dorky smile before I can forget. Not that I would.

I doubt I ever would.

My hand still tingles, the memory of Marco's fingers on mine permanently singed into my skin.


	3. Chrome Finish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a long-ish chapter because of a long-ish wait

My brain is all over the place the whole duration of my next class. My eyes keep wandering back to the sloppy scrawl Marco left on the inside of my hand, the ink warped and smudged from the cracks in my skin, and I have this stupid fucking grin on my face. My right leg keeps bouncing up and down like I'm some 14 year-old hyped up on Monster Energy; I  _hate_ Monster Energy. The second the bell rings I'm out of my seat. The art professor was weird anyway, babbling on about getting in tune with your artistic spirit animal or something. They kind of remind me of that wacky professor from Harry Potter. Trelownly or something. 

Oh well. At least they aren't boring.

I take the campus shuttle to the Trax station and get on the train home, pulling my phone out before anyone can talk to me. There are some freaky people on the train, and it seems the only way to keep them away from you is to look busy. I want to be on my phone, though, opening a new message and finding Marco's contact, so I'm not intentionally being an ass. I mean, I have good reason. I think for a bit, staring down at the screen and wondering what exactly I should say before shrugging and just typing whatever comes to mind first.

_**To: Marco** _

_hey it's jean_

I shut the screen off before I can over-think anything and stare out the window, picking at my nails and wondering how anyone can wear nail polish for weeks without chipping it off. Witchcraft I tell you. Nervous sweat builds at the back of my neck, and my stomach churns. I'm getting anxious after sending one fucking text, this should be fun. I blame the shaking in my hands on how hard the train is going over bumps and oddities on its track.

My phone buzzing between my legs nearly gives me an aneurysm.

_**From: Marco** _

_Hey! How were your classes??_

I laugh, quiet and nervous, at how jumpy I am and type a reply. A really bad reply.

_**To: Marco** _

_fine thanks. a little boring but whatever :/_

Holy shit am I awful at making small talk. I rack my brain for something else to send, but Marco saves me the effort. 

_**From: Marco** _

_So do you live in the dorms on campus or a town house?_

Of course it comes to this. Of course. It's embarrassing enough telling my friends I'm still living with my parents, let alone, like, hot people I actually want to keep around. Jokes on them, I guess; at least I still have a vague sense of what real food is. I don't say that, though because im actually trying to be nice.

_**To: Marco** _

_im still at home actually. but i don't live far from campudjesf_

**_To: Marco_ **

_sorry i meant 'campus'_

**_To: Marco_ **

_heavy train turbulence_  

My face burns and I crossly look out the window just as the train turns left at the intersection before the highway leading to the residencial areas at the heart of Trost. I'll be able to get off soon and start walking the short distance home.

_**From: Marco**  
_

_sucks bro :(_

**_From: Marco_ **

_turbulence I mean. Living at home sounds great!_

And we text back and forth like that until the train stops. I pocket my phone for a total of probably a minute before it's out again and that stupid fucking grin is back on my face. I'm walking home with my phone shoved in my face when he tells me he works at a tattoo shop in downtown Trost as a piercing specialist. I (begrudgingly) admit to being terrified of needles.

_**From: Marco** _

_You don't seem like someone who'd be afraid of needles. Maybe it's your face :P_

I smirk at the text, unlocking the front door and walking inside. I close it with my foot and walk upstairs toward the smell of something cooking. "I'm home," I say in passing and make for my room, thinking out a witty reply for Marco.

"Hey!" Someone calls from the kitchen and I feel something warm and wet slap the back of my head.

I pocket my phone with a growl, tilting my head to balance the wet towel on my neck before pulling it off and turning around. "What the f--"

"You never called!" Clarice stands in the middle of the hall, fuming. Her arms are folded expectantly, and I'm reminded of my father for a brief moment. "You were supposed to help me cook for Mom's open house tonight!"

Oh. That. I knew there was something missing. 

I shrug at her, "What do you want me to do? I had school." It's not like the open house is anything important to us. Or Mom for that matter. It's all just a ruse to get a bunch of middle-aged men and women to come into our home and chat among each other about whatever preppy old white people talk about. No doubt Mom'll drag both Clarice and I downstairs so they can all see how well-developed and respectful we are to our elderly. So they can all see that the son of a wealthy business man who's hardly ever home can still grow up to be a dignified citizen.

Ugh.

Clarice sighs tensely, taking a deep breath and closing her eyes. Her curled blonde hair falls into them and she brushes it away with a swift whip of her neck. "Will you at least help me finish frosting the cupcakes? I only have a few left, but I can feel carpel tunnel coming on," She rubs her little wrist.

I groan, but take pity on her because I'm just that nice. Sign me up for brother of the year. She leads the way back into the kitchen and I put the dishrag in the sink, rolling up my sleeves and washing my hands before turning to the table. The whole surface is covered in chocolate and vanilla cupcakes with varying colors of frosting. The mass closest to the entryway is still un-frosted and the unnaturally bright blue cream sitting in a bowl in front of me makes me cringe. I grab a spreading knife anyway.

"How was class?" Clarice asks. She grabs a messy plastic bag with neon orange icing and proceeds to draw little ice-cream swirls at breakneck speed. Honestly, what does she need me for?

"Fine," I shrug, "the first week is pretty uneventful, I guess. Ask me in a few months how I feel about it," I get a little bit of blue on my knuckle and lick it off. It's too sweet for me, but not too bad. I can faintly taste the coconut extract.

Clarice hums, completely in the cupcake icing zone and the room falls silent. We don't say any more until every cupcake is covered in a thick layer of colored sugar. I make sure she doesn't need anything more before I retreat to my room and continue messaging Marco.

_**To: Marco** _

_what about my face makes you think im not scared of needles??_

He doesn't respond for a few minutes, and I busy myself with browsing through my twitter feed. Huh. I didn't know Iggy was from Australia. I guess every place needs their own Justin Bieber.

**_From: Marco_ **

_Idk. It's like you have perpetual angry-face 24/7..._  

I smirk. It's not the first time somebody's told me that.

**_To: Marco_ **

_that's just to keep missionaries away from me. it's a defense mechanism._

_**From: Marco**  
_

_Oh. That makes sense._

We continue texting until he has to start his shift at work. I don't realize how late it is until I look at my clock and start getting ready for the open house at about seven. I'm just straightening my tie when Mom bursts into my room, looking frazzled.

"Oh, good." She sighs hugely, "The Carolina's and Braus's are here if you want to, I don't know, socialize, maybe?" She looks at me only a little pleadingly and twiddles with her fingers. I know she's desperate to get things going if she's asking  _me_ to come downstairs before my father is home. She nervously tucks a stray piece of her wheat-colored hair behind her ear and adjusts her silver necklace.

I sigh and turn back to fixing my shirt in the mirror. "Just give me a few minutes," I really don't want to do this, but I want to say no to that face even less. "I'll be down in a little bit, okay?" 

Mom thanks me with another huge sigh and leaves the room still pulling at her necklace like it will never be up to her standards; I'm sure she'll end up taking it off before the end of the night. I make sure I'm somewhat presentable before slipping my phone into my pocket and turning off the light and closing the door. Dad has specific rules that guests aren't aloud upstairs unless otherwise specified, but there is no way I trust these guys with privacy or following the rules. They're the parents that put security cameras in the entryway so they can see their kids come home while they're cheating on their wife with their secretary. They set up computer programs to monitor your internet usage. It's flat-out creepy, and I don't want any of them snooping around in my room. So, I lock my door. That's sure to stop 'em.

I slink downstairs to the living room where at least four couples are already congregating. Their light laughter can be heard all through the room, but not in the raucous, echo-y way. I scan the room for only a second before spotting Sasha, standing next to her mother and father by the refreshment table near the front window in a light pink dress with her long hair pulled into a gently curled ponytail, and migrate over to her. She isn't the only person my age here, but a far better choice than Thomas Wagner, the pompous asshole. I know Annie Leonhardt is somewhere, but she's a little too intense, and I doubt she likes me anyway. Honestly, I'm not really sure she likes anyone.

"So how are your classes?" I ask Sasha in a low voice, handing her a vanilla cupcake with bright pink frosting as a kind of greeting/peace offering. "Everything you hoped for?" I nod lightly to her father, my own father's subordinate. He gives a half smile and starts talking to his wife.

Sasha takes the cupcake graciously with a bright smile and peels the wrapping away, taking a huge bite. "Id waf awmafing!" She swallows and takes another, smaller bite. "My cooking professor is soo cool! He reminds me a little of Gordon Ramsey, but, like, missing an arm. And he made pancakes for the first few people that showed up! It was so good!" She finishes the cupcake and takes a small cup of punch to wash it down. "How were yours?"

"Peachy," I mutter and another couple walks in, all clean and typical Wonder Bread family with a wife in pearls and husband in a suit. "You'll never guess what happened in my Stats class, though."

Sasha raises an eyebrow at me and pulls the cup away from her lips. "What?" There's still a little bit of frosting glazing her top lip, making her look like she just drank a bottle of Pepto Bismal and I smile a little.

"You remember that guy I threw up on a few months ago? At Lagoona Beach?" I make sure to keep my voice low and lean into her a little so she's the only one who can hear me.

"Yeah. The super punky dude with the fancy hair and piercings?"

"That's him," I casually look around at the suburbians surrounding us, "He's in there."

Sasha gasps and almost drops her cup right on the white carpet. "No way," she says, a sly smile coming onto her face. "No  _way."_

I can't help the smile on my own face. "It gets better. He sat next to me, too."

Sasha's hand flies up to her mouth and she squeals, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Did he recognize you?"

"Oh, yeah, definitely." My father walks into the room and addresses everyone in a loud voice and I make a point to turn to the refreshment table and keep my head down. Sasha follows suit, still looking excitedly at me. "We talked for a little while and he even asked me to lunch."

Sasha's eyes narrow then and I know she no longer believes me. "Shut up. You're lying aren't you?" She hits me lightly on the shoulder. "You're just messing with me!"

I give her my hand, palm up, still showing the slightly faded purple of Marco's number. "Am I?" I challenge in a satisfied voice and her eyes just about bug right out of her head. I keep watch for my parents or Clarice while Sasha inspects the sloppy scrawl.

"His handwriting is terrible," She comments and gives me my hand back.

"Tell me about it. I tried copying part of his notes today. It was like reading ancient hieroglyphics." I pocket my hand quickly as one of Dad's coworkers approaches us and asks about our schooling. Sasha and I both smile and make small talk until he finally leaves with a plate full of chocolate eclairs and some punch for his wife.

"Have you texted him at all? Tell me you have, Jean, or so help me God," The look of shear pleading Sasha gives me makes me laugh, and I pat her shoulder.

"Don't worry Sash, I'm not that oblivious. I've been talking to him since class got out." I pull out my phone and show her my chat history. Sasha grabs it and reads everything, holding the text close to her face. I know she means well, but I feel like she's intruding my personal privacy. It's my fault, I guess; I did give her my phone.

"He's totally flirting with you," Sasha says with finality, offering my phone back and grabbing another cupcake. "I mean, he asked you to lunch and gave you his number." She gasps and looks at me with wide eyes and a tight, barely concealed smile, "What if he has a vomit fetish? He has a vomit fetish and he's flirting with you, Jean."

I cringe at the imagery assaulting my brain, "Eww," I groan at her. "Why would you say that? Now he sounds like a creep," I hit Sasha in the shoulder lightly when she just waggles her eyebrows at me with a nasty smile on her face.

"You've always known how to pick 'em, Jean," Sasha deadpans and the grin is still there. She takes another bite of cupcake and wipes the corner of her mouth with her thumb. "Is he any good?"

"What do you mean?"

Sasha shrugs indifferently, "do you want to keep hanging out with him?"

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up and I pick up a chocolate eclair to pick at, but not really eat. I don't want to stifle the butterflies in my stomach.

"I think you already know the answer to that."

* * *

What is the eff-ing deal with eff-ing adults and wanting to eff-ing know your eff-ing major? I'm a freshman! I literally started classes _today._ I don't even know what I want for dinner, let alone what I want to do the rest of my life.

But, Lo! I'm supposed to know _exactly_ what I'm doing  _right now!_ I have to know who I'm going to marry, how many kids I'm going to have _and,_ you guessed it, my fucking major! It can't be that hard to decide,  _right?_ _  
_

Wrong.  _Dead wrong._

Sasha and I made a game of coming up with the most ridiculous majors to tell people we had. Whoever could keep a straight face through the whole thing won, but it was hard when so many of the snot-heads we talked to would look at us like freaks if we said anything other than business or math or something impressive like that. Sasha won most rounds because she wasn't lying most of the time. I think she genuinely liked gloating to these guys sometimes. Not that I don't do the same; gloating is fun, especially when you see middle-aged women fawning over how great you are to their husbands and you get to watch as the men get more and more dead-eyed as the conversation drags on. It's great.

The open house seems to drag on for an eternity, but really only lasts a little over an hour. I notice Mom has taken off her necklace like I'd suspected she would as I escort Sasha and her parents to the door, giving Sasha a discrete, knowing look before closing the door and walking back up to my room to change. I see I have a new text from Marco and open it after locking my door.

_**From: Marco** _

_Just know that if you ever find yourself wanting any body mods, I'm the person to call. ;)_

Attached is a picture of some guy with a short red-brown beard laying face-up on what looks kind of like a hospital gurney with his head tilted back. A small silver ring hangs loosely from his nose and I can see the smallest collection of blood on the inside of his nostrils. He's smiling weakly, but his tongue is sticking out and one hand makes the "rock on" symbol.

Part of Marco's leg is visible in the corner of the picture and his freckled hand is making a peace sign near the guy's head.

I smile at the picture and am half tempted to save it to my phone, but instead take a picture of my own. A selfie of me fixing my tie, one eyebrow cocked like something out of a magazine. Damn I'm hot. Like Neil Patrick Harris hot.

**_To: Marco_ **

_just know that if you ever find yourself lacking in the hot friends department, i'm the person to call ;)_

I turn off the vibrate to my phone with a burning face and set it face down on my nightstand so I don't have to see his reply.

* * *

"You almost gave my client a heart attack last night," Marco tells me in low greeting as I sit down for Stats the next day. "I showed him your selfie, and he almost had a goddamn heart attack,"

I smirk to hide the way my cheeks sting, pulling out my notebook and pen. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

Marco shrugs, "Depends. Are you gonna use your powers for good?"

"Definitely not,"

"Then it's a bad thing."

We go to lunch again after class, this time to somewhere closer to campus so I'm not late to Art again. We choose Subway and I make sure to pay for myself this time.

"So, what's with the nose piercing picture last night?" I ask when Marco returns from the bathroom and sits across from me. He gives me a look and I continue on, "Isn't there, like, some client confidentiality about showing off pictures with that kind of stuff? Legal measures to keep stupid people from doing dangerous things at home?" I take a huge bite of my turkey sandwich and wipe mustard from the corner of my mouth as I chew.

Marco lifts an eyebrow and smirks at me, "No," He grins, "You can go on Youtube and find over a thousand videos on how to pierce your nose at home. Some with safety pins." Marco laughs a little and takes a sip of his Pepsi (ew), "And, while we're on the subject, what's with the suit last night? You just lounge around in formal wear in your free time?"

"I wish," I sigh, "I had a formal thing to do. An open house for...my dad's work,"

"What does he do?"

I shrug and look away for a moment, scratching lightly at the grain in the table. "He's the CEO of a family business. Kirchstein power mill."

"Is that the one at the point of the mountain?" Marco squints to get a closer look at the memory, "With all the windmills everywhere?" 

I look at him and nod, "Yeah."

Marco gives me an impressed look and nods. "Not bad," he says and lets the subject drop.

"So," I begin slowly, "How do you get a job at a tattoo parlor?" The look Marco gives me makes me backpedal. "I-I mean. It seems like a...casual job, I guess. The interview process can't be the same as most other places, right?"

"You have to set up a portfolio," Marco smirks, "Show them some of your work. But, I can't draw for shit. I only got the job because my roommate's the owner's son. And I only do piercings."

"Is that where you got all the...?" I gesture to my face, particularly my mouth, looking at him.

"Yep," Marco says then laughs at something. "My first piercing was actually done at home, now that I think of it. Eren, my roommate, offered to do it for me because I helped with his homework." He points at the bullring in his nose, "Got it done the second week at university,"

"What year are you?" It hadn't yet occurred to me that Marco might not be my age.

He quirks a half smile, "I'm a junior. This is my third year at Trost. I'm getting my BA in Aviation before heading off to an actual piloting school."

The smile I give is fake as shit and forced. God, I'm like a child compared to him. A wee freshman hanging out with someone two years older than me. I don't know. Maybe the difference isn't as big as I think. I'm used to being the oldest of my friends. Or, at least I act the oldest.

Sometimes I wonder if the universe is out to get me.

* * *

The rest of the week passes pretty slow. Wednesdays I only have History and Thursdays are no classes at all. Friday's Statistics class is pretty uneventful aside from Marco and I going to lunch in the cafeteria, but even that is pretty sluggish. I'm kind of out of it until I walk into Art and the strong smell of vinegar burns my nostrils.

" _Fuck_ ," I cough, covering my nose with my sleeve. The stench is so powerful, so pungent, that the sour tang sits on my tongue every time I swallow and I just about gag every time. "What  _is_ that?" My eyes water and burn as I find my seat, but the smell doesn't go away. If anything, it gets stronger.

"We're starting our projects today!" Professor Hanji Zoe, weird shit extraordinaire, exclaims as soon as the bell trills. "I know many of you think this is just a life drawing class, but we are going a bit deeper this semester!" They walk to the front of the room and unsheathe a small, white sheet from what I originally thought was a canvas, but now see as a wide, thin slab of wood. I didn't pay enough attention in my tenth-grade woodshop class to know what kind it is, but it's a light glossy color.

A few people around me murmur questioningly before falling silent again and class continues.

"As some of you may know," Professor Zoe breathes in their nasally voice, "Steel wool and vinegar mixed together make a beautiful wood-stain that acts as a finish. To put things shortly, you will all be painting me a portrait using  _only_ steel wool and vinegar. The thicker the coating, the darker the finish, so shading will not be a problem for most of you. I'm giving you today to brainstorm because of a need to make a few personal phone-calls, but the completed project is due the first week of October." They pass around a tray with cups of vinegar and little bags of steel wool as they speak. "You can use different vinegars for different shades, but I will not allow any paint," I plug my nose when I get my cup, setting it as far from me as possible and leaning back in my chair.

Procrastination takes hold of me as soon as Professor Zoe is gone and I whip out my phone, shooting Marco a text.

_**To: Marco** _

_pretty sure my art prof. is nuts_

I put it back in my pocket and stare at the blank wood canvas in front of me , busying myself with looking at shapes and faces in the warped stock until he replies. I find a Martian and a tiny round space ship near the top right corner.

_**From: Marco** _

_This isn't the first time someone has sent me that text. What are they having you do?_

A small mouse curled in a ball in the middle near the bottom.

**_To: Marco_ **

_i have to paint a portrait using finish on a piece of wood. i don't know what to do??? marco tell me what to do_

The reply isn't immediate. I find a two-headed snake in the meantime, the head on the right with it's mouth open in a snaggle-toothed type grin. 

_**From: Marco** _

_Draw me like one of your French girls_

That weeds a smile out of me.

_**To: Marco** _

_no porn_

_**From: Marco** _

_paint me with a flower crown_

I smile again. Marco would be fucking _adorable_ in a flower crown. 

I don't tell him that.

**_To: Marco_ **

_i think it has to be a bit more complex than that :/_

His reply comes faster than the last two.

_**From: Marco** _

_Then paint me as a smoking hot sex god descending upon the wicked in a chariot of fire with lightning and crazy-as-shit rainstorms surrounding me_

_**From: Marco** _

_while wearing a flower crown_  

My face goes pink and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud. I would have loved to paint that, even if I'm not self-confident enough to look someone in the eye and explain what it is.

**_To: Marco_ **

_hmm.....lemme think about it_

I put my phone back in my pocket and one of the kids, a short girl with blonde hair and bright blue eyes, leans over to me. "Do you have any idea how we're supposed to do this?" She asks in a small voice, "I've worked with steel wool and vinegar before, but never for painting. And I don't know what they want us to paint," She looks desperately at me.

"Uh," I look at her blankly and hear my phone ding in my pocket, but ignore it. "I think it's somewhere on the syllabus. They want us to paint a portrait of some kind. It can only be realistic or semi-realistic and can't have more than three people in it," I shrug helplessly at her.

"Have you decided on someone?" 

"I'm," I'm suddenly aware of the weight of my phone against my thigh. It's warm, familiar and I speak without really thinking, "I'm doing a picture of my boyfriend,"

Jesus Murphy. My eyes go wide and I look away. Did I just say that? Why did I just say that? I barely know him! I could have just said a friend and it would have been perfectly fine! Goddammit, Kirschtein, get yourself together.

The girl gasps and a smile breaks out across her face, "Oh, that's good! I should do that! You wouldn't call it plagiarism if I did the same thing, would you? I promise I'm not copying," She gives me an exasperated look and puts her hands palm-up for me, pleading.

I look at her before shaking my head with a smile, "No, that's fine. I'm not entirely sure I'm going to do it, anyway,"

"Thanks," and the girl goes back to her own board and does her own thing.

My phone dings in my pocket again and I pull it out.

_**From: Marco** _

_while we're talking, do you want to go to a movie next weekend? My roommate's going out of town on family business_

_**From: Marco** _

_are you back to being a good student who doesn't text during class? ;)_

I roll my eyes at the sly comment

**_To: Marco_ **

_no. and a movie sounds great. I could use some time away from the family :)_

**_From: Marco_ **

_We'll meet up later and find something, then_

The thought of not only going to a movie with Marco, but also meeting up after classes and  _planning_ for said movie gives me the chills and I reply with a smile. 

_**To: Marco** _

_i'll be done in 20 mins_

* * *

I stand outside in the sun waiting for Marco after class. I left my wood plank in the classroom, not wanting to lug the thing around the rest of the day (and my mind was in other places. Like wondering why I called Marco my boyfriend). I didn't even start anything anyway, so no big deal, right? Right.

I'm incredibly grateful for my own intuition when something roars through campus and right up to my place on the sidewalk by the English building, making me jump back a few steps. My mind is too caught up in the screaming in my ears to really register anything until Marco cuts the engine on a  _really_ nice looking black bike and takes off his helmet, shaking out his hair (I would not mind running my hands through that at all). He smiles at me. I don't smile back, just looking at him with wide eyes, and he takes my silence and utter shock as a bad thing.

"You're not afraid of bikes, are you?" Marco asks with a slight frown pulling at his lips and I see his shoulders drop.

I pull my eyes from the bike to him, quickly shaking my head. "Wha-no, I'm just...Is that a Ducati?"

The smile finds its way back on Marco's features and he says, "You know your bikes," He hangs his helmet on the right handle bar, putting a hand on the matte chrome in front of him. "It's a Panigale. Got it last year." He pauses a moment, smiling to himself before his brown eyes meet me again. "You ready to go?"

I jump a little and walk up to the bike, not really sure what to do with myself. "Y-yeah," I try not to let my voice shake.

"Here," Marco hands me his helmet to wear, "First-time riders get the priority of safety," he helps me with the chin-strap and I try to hide the way my cheeks burn when his fingers brush the underside of my jaw. Oh, God. Why did I choose today of all days to fuck up and say I was dating him?

It feels awkward kicking my leg up and straddling the Ducati, but I manage.

"You're gonna have to hold on to me, Jean," Marco says with a sly grin, "but I could say 'No Homo' if it'd spare your masculinity the trouble," 

"No," I smirk, "I'm fine with a little homo," _I'm also fine with a lot of homo._

Marco kicks the engine to life with a shuddering roar that makes my whole body shake and I like to think I didn't just imagine him saying, "Good." just before peeling out of the parking lot.

* * *

We had to take the freeway to get to Marco's townhouse, and let me tell you, he drives like a maniac. Speeding between lanes and cars and roaring through corners at speeds that can't be anywhere near safe. But each time we  _did_ round a corner, I felt him put a hand over both of mine where they grasped tightly in his shirt until we were no longer tilted dangerously close to the ground and driving in a straight line. I still held him in a grip so tight I could crack his ribs, though.

One particular moment when I was sure death was immanent was when we hit the intersection just off the freeway, having to curve left under the wide overpass of cars going another direction. The light was red and I took the small opportunity to sit up and stretch my back, arching back and looking at the cars surrounding us. I rubbed my arms, cold and covered with goose bumps from the wind pummeling them for so long, and Marco put his leg down to support his bike at its standstill. The motion of being tilted to the side made me lose my balance, re-wrapping my arms around Marco's waist just as the light switched back to green and we were zooming down the street again. My hands shook violently at the feeling of being pulled away from Marco each time we jolted forward at a light and I held on a little tighter each time.

"We're here," Marco yells and cuts the engine once again after rolling smoothly through a dip in the road and pulling up to an empty driveway in front of a small house. A high ringing plays through my ears and the world feels silent without the engine roaring beneath me. I take off his helmet and struggle eloquently off the side of the Ducati on weak legs that almost buckle under my weight.

"Are you all right?" Marco asks looking only a little concerned for my well-being. His voice sounds odd and far away. Like I'm hearing him from underwater. 

"'M fine, " I mutter in a weak voice. I cough, getting the gruff edge back into my voice again, and give his helmet back. "Here."

"You look..." Marco begins and taps the side of the shiny helmet with his index, looking at my hair. He seems to catch himself with a smirk, making eye contact with a sly grin. "Slightly  _frazzled_ to say the least,"

I shake out my hair, making a sure point to make it as messy as possible and glare up at him. "Shut up," I grumble.

Marco laughs and slides the kickstand into place with one swift move of his leg, the slight screech the kickstand emits grating at my ears, and he skips up to me. He shoulders past me to the front door of the house with this big grin that makes me a little suspicious, pulling out his keys and unlocking the deadbolt. "Welcome to the lair," He smirks and pushes the door open for me.

I don't really know what I'm expecting, maybe the thick smell of weed to permeate my lungs and give me a contact high, but what I definitely am not expecting is the heady smell of laundry detergent and what I'm guessing is some kind of vanilla and lavender wallflower. I step inside onto a landing of glossy walnut with a set of stairs on either side in front of me. The one to the right goes up and left leads down in a split entry. The sun streaming in from the door makes the cheery yellow of the walls all the brighter and I blink the black dots from my vision. I follow Marco as he walks down the stairs on the left, his footsteps magnified from the Doc Martin's he wears. I feel a weird sensation to trace a hand over the gold stucco, but restrain myself. I don't want to seem weird.

"Make yourself at home," Marco shrugs, leading the way into a surprisingly bright living room with thin white curtains hanging from a wide window on the far right and a black leather couch in front of a small television. "Mi casa es su casa," 

I manage to keep my eye rolling to myself and slip my backpack off. The whole house is oddly...normal compared to Marco. "I gotta admit," I start, looking around the room at the miscellaneous decorations and knick-knacks, focusing a bit longer on what _could_ be a bible, but I'm not sure. I think it might be too small. "I was kind of waiting for a commune of anarchists or something."

Marco chuckles behind me, a throaty sound that bubbles up from his chest, "Nah, anarchy's scheduled for Sunday's and Wednesday nights." His lips stretch into a wide grin that shows his dimples and his eyes flash. "But I _do_ a have a seance tonight if you want to join?"

"Oh, damn," I click my tongue in mock disappointment, sitting on the over-stuffed couch. I hide my cringe as it hisses and squeaks under my weight. "I'm booked tonight for knitting lessons with my mom." I shrug helplessly at him, "Sorry, man,"

"Well, there's always next week," 

I shrug again. God, I shrug a lot. "I guess there is,"

Silence falls and I'm not really sure if it's awkward or not. I mean, I  _feel_ like I should say something, but I don't know what. Marco seems perfectly fine without words and sits on the other end of the couch, kicking his legs up on the coffee table without so much as a blink of an eye. I notice his lips pursed, his tongue pushing at the side of his mouth idly, playing with the small piercings there. I wonder what the warm metal tastes like in a totally non-gay way. Is it the coppery taste, kind of like blood, or cringe-y metallic like the eraser end of a pencil? It's stupid questions like these that keep me up at night. I look away quickly and busy myself with scoping everything around me. Straight out of a grandma's house is what it feels like.

God, it's claustrophobic in here.

"C-can I use your bathroom?" I splutter suddenly, feeling like a blushing fool.

Marco looks my way with a slight smile curling the corners of his mouth and nods over to the hall, "Second door on the right,"

"Thanks," I squeak and all but shoot from my seat, walking down the hallway and bursting into the bathroom. I slide the lock into place and lean against the door. Jesus I'm weird. Why am I so weird? It's because I'm an art student, isn't it? Looks like I'll be changing majors soon.

The splash of cold water feels nice on my skin and there's something therapeutic in watching the small stream circle in the sink before slipping down the drain. I push the tap shut and let the remaining water drip from my nose and chin, reaching blindly for the small hand towel on the silver ring above me. I grab something and pull, but it's like a cosmetic bag or something and I push it out of the way for the towel. The bag falls from its place on the shelf above the toilet, its contents clattering noisily to the ground like bombs.  _"Fuck!"_ I cringe and wipe my face on my arm, crouching down close to the toilet like an idiot with my face still half damp and dripping to pick up all of the--

Syringes. Syringes that litter the floor like an over-excited pharmacist threw them all over the place.

Oh my fuck  _no. No._

I knew it was too good to be true. I knew there was some kind of baggage waiting until the right moment to sucker punch me right in the face. There was no getting around it.

The knock on the door almost has me screaming as my stomach drops right out of me to join all of the  _twenty goddamn syringes on the floor of Marco's bathroom._ "Jean?" Oh God. Ohgodohgod. Shitshitshitshit. "Are you all right?"

I scramble like a moron to pick up the syringes and put them back into the black bag flopped over on the toilet seat, taking extra care to keep as far away from the needles as possible. There is no  _fucking_ way I am getting Hepatitis today.

"Y-yeah," I try to sound casual, but my voice betrays me, cracking like I'm going through puberty all over again. "Yeah, I just-I just, um, hit my hand,"-wow, very convincing-"on the sink. I'm fine." I zip up the bag and--daintily as possible--place it back in the same spot on the counter and open the door. I really hope like hell I don't look as conspicuous as I feel.

Marco looks taken aback by my hastiness and I smile nervously up at him. He gives me a look and his eyes focus on something just behind me and he smirks. There's something regretful--dangerous even--in his eyes that makes me break out in a cold sweat all over and swallow noisily. I'm certain he can hear my heart palpitating in my chest, there's no way he can't. The blood rushing in my veins feels like fire, like acid, and my whole body tenses out of reflex.

Marco looks back at me, the smirk planted firmly on his beautiful and--sadly--drug-addicted face. "I'm not a tweaker," He says finally.

"W-what?" I stutter, feigning ignorance to save my sorry ass. The color leaves my face and I feel cold all over. The fire turns to ice, the acid to alkaline. My bones feel like they've been replaced with Elmer's glue, and it's all I can do to not pass out."I-I didn't--I'm not--"

"You missed one," Marco points past me to the porcelain toilet cover where one skinny little syringe sits wedged between the glass and the wall. "And I'm not a druggie, Jean; I'm diabetic. The Insulin is in the cabinet if you won't take my word for it," His muscles flex when he folds his arms across his chest, leaning heavily on the door frame and positively blocking me in the bathroom. His smirk turns teasing and my face heats up. 

I'm dumbfounded because I'm a fucking moron. "Wh-" That would actually kind of make sense. Explains why the needles are shorter than I thought they would be. "Yo-y...um, I--" I finally think for once and take a huge, shuddering breath that takes the tensity out of my shoulders. Out of my whole body. "I'm sorry." I sigh. "I am sooo sorry.." Way to go, Kirchstein, way to make an even bigger ass of yourself. Maybe tomorrow you'll make the Guiness Book of World Records!

"It's okay, man, I get it," Marco starts with a smile, but he looks away and I swear on my grave his voice cracks. "I just...thought you were better than stereotyping,"

My whole demeanor shakes. Did I seriously offend him? "B--no! No! I didn't, I'm just--" I reach for him, probably going to do something weird and gay like hug him or something. Like I said, I'm really weird sometimes. 

Marco's loud laughing cuts me off. His shoulders shake and he looks back at me with sparkly eyes. He laughs and laughs and I just stand there like a moron as he slumps into a sitting position in the doorway, the spikes on the back of his black vest making this awful scratching sound against the framing. "Oh, my god!" He cackles, "O-oh, my god! You're face was beautiful! Holy Moses!" He clutches his stomach and tries to catch his breath, but every time he looks at me he's back into his stupid laughing spell. It gets old after a while and I fold my arms, glaring down at his shaking (and beautiful and maybe-not-drug-addicted-after-all) figure.

"Are you done?" I finally drawl tartly when he can actually breathe. I'm so spiteful I hope he chokes on his own spit.

Marco manages to stand, still leaning heavily against the threshold with a pink face and this kind of high around him that makes him look a little bit younger than usual. "Oh, c'mon. I gotta be able to joke about it sometimes!" He smiles charmingly at me and I have look away, still bubbling with embarrassment. I'm not good at being smooth. I'm like those yellow slides at parks: really cool until you get close enough to ride and you get stuck halfway down and you have to do that weird scooting thing and it's just awkward for everyone. 

"Jean,"

I huff a little, "hm,"

"I'm sorry I laughed at you." When I look at Marco he's all serious. Then his demeanor cracks like glass, "But you really should've seen your face. It was beautiful,"

Oh, God, Marco just called me beautiful. Feed me to the freckled wolves. "Fine," I grumble, and I'm silent as we walk back to the living room and totally  _not_ staring at his fine ass. He's in the tattered jeans again.

He lets me sit in my silent "self-pity" for a few minutes, sitting in the same position as earlier. I think he's a little closer than before, but it could just be me finding false hope. 

"So, what kind of movies are you into?"

I just about jump out of my skin, shaking my head free of any wandering thoughts, and look back at Marco. "H-hah?" Yeah, he's definitely a few inches closer.

Marco gives me a breathy chuckle, carding a hand through his hair and leaning back against the couch. His head lolls up to the ceiling before rolling in my direction. "Movies, Jean. What kind you like?" Wow, he has a beautiful neck...

I snap out of it again with a kind of, "d-um," sound. "Um, anything, I guess. I'm not picky."

"You're incredibly helpful," Marco smirks in a not entirely rude way.

"I'm here all night,"

Marco sighs a great, breathy sigh that lasts longer than necessary, and I roll my eyes. "I guess we'll see _Age of Ultron_ by default, then." As if it's some glorious burden of his.

"I'm down for that," I sigh, "I need more Chris Evans in my life."

"Don't we all?" Marco agrees and stares off into space.

An irregularity in the threading has me picking at the fabric of my jeans. I find a knot just above my left knee and scratch my nail over it until the knot turns into a tiny run only an inch from the seam. "So, riddle me this," I finally pipe back up just to keep conversation going, "What's the deal with the granny house? It's like walking into an old folks' home in here."

Marco looks at me a little dumbfounded for a moment. "It's part of the aesthetic." He says like it's obvious.

"Oldie homes? That's your aesthetic?" I challenge disbelievingly because I can't fight my true asshole nature all the time. I have my limits and I'm only human.

"Hey, leave me alone. I'm allowed to like what I like." Marco grins and looks away, the flush from earlier still apparent on his face. "And it's part of my contract that I can't make any major changes to the house while staying here. I'm renting." He looks at me with a wide smirk that crinkles his nose and makes the ring on his mouth twinkle, "From a couple in their mid-sixties."

"Whatever," I say, but smile. "It's nice in here. Smells like...good," I shrug when Marco gives me a weird look. "I'm not really good with words."

He smiles and the flush is still there. I'm starting to wonder if it's still from his laughter spell or something else; I ignore it just in case.

"I can tell."

* * *

I stay for a little while longer, meeting Marco's roommate briefly. A short-ish kid with bright eyes and an electric blue streak in his hair. He doesn't really talk much, focusing on a small Biology book he holds in one hand and giving only grunts and half-hearted shrugs to everything Marco says. Marco rolls his eyes at me and leads the way outside where the sky is all colors of pink and orange as the sun sets behind the mountains. It's not really cold, but the absence of the sun on my skin gives me goose bumps and I fold my arms across my chest.

"Don't worry about Eren," Marco says and hands me the helmet again. "He'll be out of his studying mood by next week."

I nod and ask if he can just drop me off at the Trax station. I don't want to have to explain to good ol' Daddy-O why I'm getting a ride home from some "felon on a motorcycle". I don't tell Marco that, just saying that I live farther away or some totally bogus shit like that.

The ride home is silent, and I can't help noticing the way Marco's right hand stays over mine linked together over his stomach almost the whole time.


	4. Movie Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for transphobia

"I'm telling you, Sasha, I _really_ don't know what to do now," My phone is hot against my face, the battery probably getting overworked and overheated from being pressed against my head for so long. I barely feel the heat on my cheek anymore, but still. "I'm not cut out for this kind of stuff. I'm gonna choke on my tongue and he's gonna think I'm a loser." The plush, white carpet of my room doesn't look worn, though I swear to God I've been pacing the same spot over and over for the past hour and a half. I'm half expecting to see brown singe marks from how fast I turn on my heel and start walking to the window before whipping around again and walking to the door, back and forth, again and again.

Sasha's sigh on the other end of the line is grainy and warped, "Jean. You  _are_ a loser. There's no getting around that." I hear something like a pan being set on a counter or a burner in the background, glancing at my clock. It's almost ten p.m on Sunday night and I'm going to see Marco tomorrow, holy Jesus I'm not ready for this. "But cut the guy some slack. If puking on him  _and_ suspecting him of drug use hasn't gotten you in the morgue, nothing will. Just chill and think of it as a lunch date or something."

I'm kind of starting to regret calling her, she's too chill for me. Too simple in explaining things that seem so complicated to me. But she's also the only person I can really talk to about it. Connie would totally laugh at me, and Armin's probably neck-deep in homework with mid-terms coming up in a few weeks. Sasha has to cook meals for class, but that requires little studying, and she does better when there is background noise. If anything, I'm helping Sasha. 

"But it's not a date! That's the thing!" I throw the hand not holding my phone down to my side to emphasize my predicament. I'm throwing a fucking tantrum like a six year-old. "I don't know if I should dress up like a date or dress like we're just two friends seeing a movie together or get my tribal robes on to be his next virgin sacrifice to a moon god, or whatever!" I flop onto my bed dramatically though I feel more like jumping head-long into a freezing lake just to clear my head. I whine loudly into my pillow.

"Well, you're not a virgin, so the tribal robes are a no,"

"Sasha!"

The sound of running water in the background, and Sasha laughs. "Just be yourself! Honestly, if he didn't emphasize that it was a date, it's safe to assume that this is just gonna be some fuckboy assembly and you guys are gonna be measuring each other's dicks by the end of the night,"

I'm stunned into silence for a long time, gaping like a fish on my side of the phone. "I'm no fuckboy," I finally snip defensively, flipping over and glaring at the ceiling. 

"My point is," Sasha continues like she didn't hear me. I faintly hear the rhythmidic clop of a knife hitting a chopping board. "You're going to be watching a movie the whole time. There's hardly going to be a chance to really make a fool of yourself."

I stare up at the textured ceiling and sigh, letting the sound of Sasha chopping miscellaneous veggies invade my thoughts. The lizard wrapped around the jukebox up on the ceiling about a foot from where the ceiling meets the wall taunts me with a curly grin and two eyes that point in different directions. I close my eyes and shake my head slowly, "I really hope you're right."

* * *

Marco doesn't go to the bathroom to take his insulin the next time we eat lunch together, which is that Monday. He just pulls out the small, black bag from the front pocket of his backpack, squinting quietly at the numbers as he fills the syringe to the correct dosage and sticking the needle into his stomach a few inches from his bellybutton, pinching the skin to keep the syringe from sticking the wrong place. 

I watch rudely, but silently. It's not as gross as I thought it would be, seeing how casually Marco plunges the needle into his stomach. My own stomach feels itchy with chills.

"How do you know how much to inject?" I pipe up after a minute of cringing at the thought of needles going into my gut and twirl my fork around in my Cup Noodles, blowing quietly on the curly noodles. I test it with my tongue before biting down wholeheartedly and slurping.

"Uh," Marco puts his bag back in the front pocket of his backpack under the table. He's straightened up again and taking a big bite of tuna sandwich before he answers. "It depends on the amount of carbohydrates in what I'm eating. The higher the carbs, the higher the dose." The eyebrow with the piercings lifts questioningly at me and he swallows. I try not to watch the way the muscles in his neck ripple with the motion of his Adam's Apple bobbing up and down, but holy shit. That shit's distracting as fuck. "Why do you ask?"

I shrug indifferently and run my nail down the side of the Styrofoam cup, leaving a deep, thin streak in its midst. "Just curious, I guess. Seems like it'd be a hassle calculating all of that every time you eat."

Marco half-grins and shakes his head. "It's really not. It's clockwork after a while, and you get a feel for how much you need depending on what you're eating. The real pain is testing blood sugar." He wiggles his fingers at me and I notice a small, already-scabbing prick on the side of his middle finger. I wonder if he did it before class, or sometime before we got to the dining hall. "Not only do I have to check it before meals, but before and after exercising, before bed and sometimes in the middle of the night."

"Ew," I cringe, "You're digits just can't get a rest, can they?"

The smile he sports stretches until I can see his teeth, "Well, there are other reasons I'm not a hand model, but that is a pretty big contribution."

"And it's not like anyone exercises anymore, right?" I slurp up another tangle of noodles and wipe the few drops of soup that fleck onto my chin. I swear I'm the sloppiest eater in this whole goddamn room. "'S just another thing to make your life a little harder."  I unscrew the cap from my soda and take a swig. "And sore muscles are a bitch."

Marco sizes me up with a smirk that presses the rim of his septum against the top of his upper lip. He curls his bicep upward and flexes the muscle, making me go weak at the knees and _extremely_ grateful I'm sitting down. "Good thing I like a challenge, I guess," Oh, God, there's a vein poking out just next to the bulge by his elbow. I hate myself right then, for not getting my flirt game on and for even _thinking_ I really have a chance with this guy simultaneously. More than anything, though, I wish I had taken advantage of the gym membership I'd gotten for Christmas last year.

"That's okay," I lean back in my seat casually to hide my inner self-loathing, and smirk at the way Marco rolls the short sleeve of his black shirt with a logo I don't recognize back down over his arm. "I didn't need my self-esteem, anyway."

The slight grin Marco gives me before taking another bite of his sandwich makes the noodles in my stomach thrash around and tickle my insides. His dimples are showing. "Don't worry about it, Jean, I have to keep up on healthy eating and exercising, anyway. I don't enjoy working out at all." I get a nice view of his collarbones when he sits forward with his elbows on the table.

"O-oh," I have to look away or I might explode right there, "well, sucks to suck, then. I guess I'll just have to vegetate enough for the two of us."

Marco scoffs, "Thanks," before getting down to business. "So, on a more serious note, what time do you want to go to the movie Friday? Showtimes start at about three, but I hate walking out of theaters when it's still sunny outside." He wrinkles his nose distastefully and finishes off his sandwich, moving on to a shiny green apple.

I watch him chew for a moment, thinking. "I like late night movies, too," I stir my fork around in my Ramen, watching the lingering bubbles of oil and flavoring swirl around in the Styrofoam, some of them getting stuck on the sides of the cup, staining it an artificial yellow. "Anything past eight is good for me. I don't have a curfew over the weekend." I push the cup away, finished with my food.

"I'll text you the closest time to that, then," Marco smiles at me and the one I give him feels a little hollow.

I take my wood plank home that day and put it on the small easel in the corner of my room. I still haven't started on my project and I know it's totally going to kill my grade if I don't get on it soon, but I'm stuck. Painting Marco would be a hellava lot of fun, but also really weird, and I'm weird enough for about four people. I don't need anymore.

My phone buzzes in my pocket as I continue to glare lazers at the wood across from me.

_**From: Marco** _

_There's a showtime at 9:30 on Friday_

I type out a reply, still brooding about having to do this stupid-as-hell project.

_**To: Marco** _

_that's fine for me. do you want to meet there?_

_**From: Marco**_

_I'm good with whatever._

**_From: Marco_ **

_Are you saying you don't want to ride on my bike again? ;)_

I scoff at the text and lay down on my bed with my feet dangling loosely off the side.

_**To: Marco** _

_i'm saying i don't want to get rained on_

**_From: Marco_ **

_Touche._

I headache my way through my Stats homework that night (because there is no way I'm coming up with a portrait now if I haven't already) and try to keep my mind from wandering away from the Normal Modals I'm drawing and hypothesis tests I'm running, but every time I start write out an equation, my mind is somewhere else. I don't think I have ADD, but holy shit. Why is math so fucking hard? I honestly couldn't care less about the statistical probability of two trains making it to the same station at exactly the same time. Sorry.

I manage to to finish two hypothesis tests and a confidence interval (which I totally did wrong) before Dad gets home. He comes into my room without even knocking first, and I bite my tongue to keep from saying something smart. "Hey," I say awkwardly and put my calculator down on the bed, the little black box in the screen still blinking rhythmically up at me, waiting for me to jot something down. I know it's stupid, but I feel the need to cover my notes with my hands when he sits at the edge of the bed only a few feet from me. 

"This lawsuit is going to be the death of me," Dad says in his own little way of greeting. His fingers lace together like a zipper and he rolls his thumbs over one another, "Some anarchists trying to sue the company because of fraud or something."

I have very little knowledge of the things my father has to deal with on a day-to-day basis, so I just nod along. "How long do you think this one is going to take?"

The solemn look on Dad's face melts away and he grins at me, a kind of Cheshire cat smile that makes the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. It's not so much that it's creepy, just over-confident. Arrogant. "Oh, not long at all. It's such a small group, I doubt they'll stand a chance against our lawyer; they're just persistent. They insist the company hasn't paid as much as promised for their services to us, but they were late getting finished, so they got a pay cut. It was in the contract given to them." He shrugs in this kind of you-made-your-bed-now-lay-in-it way. It's something he does when he's finally gotten sick of arguing.

"How much of a pay cut?" I hate talking business with my father, but it's one of the only topics we can really connect on. Dad because he's been in business his whole life, and me because I paid close attention to the things he did when I was a kid; the business matters he took care of that I heard of from Mom or the local news. I learned a lot of terms because I wanted to hold a conversation longer than a few minutes. Now, I really couldn't care less about his work.

"So what are you doing tonight?" I restrain myself from flinching away when Dad reaches for my homework, ignoring my question. I _really_ hate it when he looks at my stuff before it's finished. It's the perfectionist in me screaming that it will never be good enough for my (his) standards. "Hypothesis tests. I remember doing these when I was your age. What kind are they?"

I answer automatically, "Chi square tests of Homogeneity,"

Dad hums and his eyes scan the page one more time before he gives it back to me. His hair was once the color of mine: dark, ashy blonde, but the stress of running a company for so many years made him prematurely grey by the time he hit forty-five. Nearly five years later and the salt-and-pepper of his hair is mostly salt and the few patches of hair clinging relentlessly to their pigment are mainly at the crown of his head, like their reserved specifically for only the stars to see.

My phone dings once on the nightstand.

"Who's that?" Dad asks and nods to the phone.

"A friend from school," I try to keep my tone uninterested, but my dad has a way with weeding the nervous habits right out of me, and my tone comes off as suspicious. "I'm actually going to see a movie with him Friday night."

Dad's eyes are still on the phone and I feel like my legs are covered in an army of ants, their tiny legs skittering up and down my legs and giving me a bad case of goose bumps. "Which movie?" Dad asks.

" _The Avengers_ ,"

Dad nods and I'm not sure what he's thinking.

"Well," he slaps his hands on his thighs and stands with a grunt that only dads seem to know how to do, "tell me how it is," He leaves the door of my room gaping open and I wait a bit before getting up and closing it. I don't realize I've been holding my breath until the door clicks shut and I lean against the frame. That's about as close as it gets with my dad and, honestly, I'm okay with that. 

I know that makes me a bad son, doesn't it?

* * *

I realize that Wednesday the blonde girl from my Art class is also in History with me. She's quiet and doesn't really say much to anyone, sitting in the back of the lecture hall. I ran in late because of the train being delayed this morning, but the professor isn't in yet when I slink through the doors, so I'm safe. I don't sit in my regular spot near the front, and that's when I see her sitting with a book crammed between her and the small desk in front of her.

I slip into a seat four to the right of her and pull out the bright green notebook I use specifically for History notes and a pen. I notice the girl doesn't put her book down even when the professor starts her lecture, and don't really pay her much mind the rest of class. I get bored when we move on to talk about the Monroe Doctrine and Manifest Destiny and all that jazz, opting to doodle random characters up the side of my arm. I play connect the dots with the few freckles I have on my right arm (like three tops) before letting my mind wander. Man, connect the dots would be wild ride with Marco. I wonder how many freckles he has on his back, if he has any, or if the smattering is just reserved for his face and arms. And speaking of his arms, damn they're nice. Kudos for actually, like, working out.

The bell ringing pulls me out of it, and I gather the rest of my dignity on my way out the door.

The rest of the day passes by in a fuzz. It's not like I was daydreaming the whole time, I really wasn't, I'm just tired. Wednesdays are the worst. Sure, you're half-way through the week, but you still have half the week to _go_. I prefer Thursdays. They're like Christmas Eve, but for the weekend.

Speaking of Thursday, I spend the day with Mom and Clarice, shopping for some plant or another. I don't know, I wasn't really paying attention. I had my headphones in the whole time.

"I know this sounds totally basic, but I really hope Franz asks me to Homecoming. Hannah went with him to Prom last year and said she had such a fun time." Clarice says when we walk into a Barnes & Nobles, "I personally don't find him that attractive, but he seems nice. Really funny." They gravitate toward the textbook section and I want to puke. I've had enough of textbooks for one week; I really just want to go to the movie with Marco already. 

Clarice looks back at me, "Jean, what do you think? Would I go well with Franz? You knew his older brother didn't you?" I can't really tell if her gaze is curious or demanding, she's always had a face that's hard to read. It makes her pretty slick at poker.

I take a long look at her, "I don't know," I shrug honestly, "Franz seems a bit more outgoing than Cole, but they're both pretty cool, I guess. Better choice than the Wagner's." Clarice and I exchange looks of shared disgust, making unattractive noises in the back of our throats. Clarice actually sound like she might vomit.

"Now, Jean, be nice," It's Mom this time. She's been quiet most the day, both she and I listening to Clarice jabber on about whatever topic she comes up with. Weirdly enough, it's me and my mom that are the quiet ones in the family. Get Dad going on something and he'll rant all night long if you let him. That's why I think he'd be a better lawyer than business owner. That, and he's good at weaseling people out of messy situations like some criminal mastermind.

I run a finger over the glossy paperbacks to my side and don't look at either Mom or Clarice. "Whatever," I shrug and listen to my music the rest of the day. We shop around a few other places, Mom finds me some cologne she likes and insists I wear it at least once. It smells pretty good, but it's not really something I would pick for myself; too swarthy and I'm-secretly-fucking-four-other-people. But maybe that's something I need for my not-really-plans to seduce Marco Friday night, so I let her buy it with very little objection.

I buy a green and black flannel shirt from Pac Sun and a grey t-shirt to go with it when Mom and Clarice split off to go into some earring shop. Trost City Center has a plethora of other stores with nicer clothes, but I like the feel in Pac Sun. It's not as flashy, and I do like being a little independent every now and then. And it's the only thing I can afford besides the hipster-teeming thrift stores around campus.

I'm checking out a pretty cool pair of distressed jeans near the dressing room when one of the few employees approaches me with a sincerely fake smile. "Can I help you with anything?" She asks politely.

I just shake my head, not really looking at her. "No, I'm just looking. Thank you, though,"

She nods and wanders off. I look at the jeans for a few minutes more before deciding against them. I have plenty of pants just like them at home that I can wear to the movie. Nice casual, that's what Sasha said.

Mom and Clarice aren't back when I'm done at Pac Sun, and I don't really want to go looking for them. I sit on one of the stone benches surrounding the fountain at the heart of the mall, setting the white plastic bag beside me and scrolling through my phone. Twitter is pretty boring and Tumblr is something not for public places, so I get on Instagram. There are a few selfies of Connie with some fucking cadavers in his human anatomy classes that I totally disapprove of. Like, have some respect for the dead, man. I flip past those with chagrin to a few of Sasha in her cooking class. The professor in there looks nice enough, if a little stoic, and she was right about his arm being missing. Not that I didn't believe her; I don't really have a reason not to.

"Jean!" Clarice calls from down the hall. I look over the leaves of the plants behind me to see her and Mom waving me over. They each have a bag in either hand and I grab my stuff, ready to leave.

"What'd you get?" Clarice asks when we're in the car driving down the highway.

I look at her from the window and shrug, "Just some shirts," I pull them out enough that she can see the colors and patterns.

"Oh, you look so nice in green! Are they for something?" Mom smiles at me through the rear-view mirror and turns left into a gated community.

"Uh," I shrug again. I can't really say that my date with Marco tomorrow is actually a date. I'm not even sure about it myself. "I'm going to a movie with a friend from school tomorrow night. I want to look nice, I guess."

"Like a girlfriend?" Clarice whips around to face me from the front seat. "You have a girlfriend already?"

I give her a deeply sarcastic look that I could only give a sibling, "Well, he's a guy so," I shrug, "No,"

Clarice makes an ugly face that I return and slumps back in her seat with her arms folded tightly in front of her chest. "I was just wondering. Jesus, you don't have to be rude." And she's quiet the rest of the ride.

I am, too. I prefer silence most the time. Ironically, I'm a lot nicer to people who aren't related to me; it's like I can stand to put up with their shit easier. I don't really get it.

Mom pipes up from her seat with a bright smile when we pull into the driveway, "Well, I think it's great you've already made some friends this early in the semester." She cuts the engine and grabs her bags. "I hope you have fun."

I manage a small smile at her. I hope I do, too.

Clarice doesn't come down for dinner that night, still brooding in her room, and I go up to her room with a plate of roast beef and watermelon and strawberry salad. I knock a few times before letting myself in, "I brought you some food, Reese," The lamp in her nightstand is on, casting a soft pinkish glow over the lavender walls. I hate the carpet in Reese's room; it's like walking on soggy sponges or something. It's too plush and sticks to your feet, not in a dirty way like some carpet does after something been spilled, but like it's just the material.

She's sitting on her bed with her legs folded and a pink pillow in her lap. Her hair is down, falling in front of her face, and it's not until I hear her sniffle that I know something is up. She wipes her nose and puts some of her hair behind her ear.

"What's wrong with you?" 

Clarice twiddles with a loose thread on the front of the pillow and shrugs, the thin blue robe she has over her silk pajamas sliding over the slippery material. "Nothing. Just not the best of days, I guess." She takes the plate when I offer it to her, but doesn't eat any of it. "Franz asked another girl to Homecoming," Reese wipes her nose again and won't meet my eyes. It's not like her to be so reserved, so quiet about it. Usually she would be in my parents' room, crying loudly with Mom cuddling her to her chest.

"Oh," Well, this is a little awkward. I sit across from Clarice on her bed, kind of like Dad was with me the night before. "Do you want to hug it out? Relieve your teen angst with some sibling bonding time or something?" I don't really know what to say to her, she normally doesn't open up to me that easily (or at all, really). Must have been pretty rough.

Clarice snorts rather unattractively and shoves my shoulder, "No, you dingus," her voice is tear-stained and raw, but at least she's smiling now, "You're horrible at faking human emotion, you know that? My alien brother trying to comfort me when I don't get a date; that's original."

"Hey, being grown in a petri dish does things to your social skills. I'm just trying to help." I smirk when Clarice glares at me and we have one of those rare moments where we're not really relative strangers, but, like, actually dwelling on the other's company and enjoying it. It's a weird feeling, very foreign, and I'm not sure if it's something I can bring myself to get used to. "I'm sorry you didn't get asked to Homecoming. Maybe he's saving you for Prom,"

Clarice smiles a little wistfully and looks down at her cold food. "Maybe."

* * *

Friday rolls around fast, but slow at the same time. I stick with just the grey t-shirt I bought the day prior for my classes and plan on grabbing the flannel that night, just to make sure it stays nice and clean. I kind of regret making that decision when a stiff wind tugs on my jeans the second I step off the train on campus and my arms pimple with goose bumps. It's overcast, but not threatening rain. The clouds are too thin to hold any moisture and I'm grateful for that at least. I still walk briskly to the Math and Science building with my arms folded tight over my chest to keep shivering to a minimum.

My Chemistry class is surprisingly sparse today, over half the students missing. Professor Ackerman assigns the few of us in there to do the lab he planned for the whole class anyway, and I'm glad I didn't decide to skip today. We have to write out the formula for some complicated chemical bonds (which I totally bombed) then make a diagram with pins and those little red and blue balls you see in most science documentaries (also bombed). It makes me feel a little better seeing Marco wearing his red 'Lagoon' shirt when I walk into Stats.

"It's nice out today," He says in greeting. "Overcast days are the best for movies."

"I concur," I nod and sit down in the seat to his left.

It's silent between us for a minute before Marco pipes up from his phone, "Sorry to spring this on you so last minute, but do you think you could pick me up tonight? You were right about the rain." He tilts his phone enough for me to see the screen a little, displaying a little weather app or something, and not looks the slightest bit apologetic.  

I roll my eyes, fiddling with the cap of my pen. "Only if you keep the demon summoning to yourself. It took me weeks to finally exorcise all those bastards out of the upholstery the last time I let a Satanist in there, and there is no way in hell I am doing that again. " It's my turn to make fun of him for something and it feels so good, I can't even describe it. I found something at fault in the sex god, hoorah! Kind of. "But, yeah. How does nine sound?"

Marco crinkles his nose in a cute way and puckers his eyebrows in faux-concern. "Can I at least bring my pentagram?" He tries to fight his smile, but it breaks his features every time he gets it under control. "I don't feel safe without Master Satan with me at all times." His burnt almond eyes sparkle in a way that would have made me catch my breath if I hadn't been desensitizing myself to his abilities for going on two months now.

Just kidding; I totally can't breathe.

"Mm," I purse my lips and look away to hide to color of my cheeks. "Let me think about it."

We talk through most of the lecture, but Marco still manages to take a whole page of notes. I make a mental note to copy them later (or at least try to. Deciphering his chicken-scratch would be like reading the Rosetta Stone). The lecture hall isn't small and we keep our heads down and voices low so they don't carry, but I still get a few glares in my direction every time I laugh, which isn't all that often and isn't all that loud; just a breathy chuckle or a scoff. Marco doesn't seem to notice the dirty looks, but his voice remains low and mumbled the whole time.

"Have you started on Professor Zoe's project yet?" He asks when we're safe out of the lecture hall and milling down to the dining hall with a small population of other students. "Do you even know what you're going to do?"

The low hanging clouds outside the wall of windows makes the hall feel loud and colder than usual and I really wish I'd had half a brain to bring a jacket today. "No," I grumble with a smirk, "The damn board is collecting dust in the corner of my room."

"You're more than welcome to paint me as a sex god, Jean." Marco grabs one of the black textured trays stacked high at the beginning of the food line and I walk beside him. Jesus, everything is echoing in here like a concert hall; it's driving me nuts.

 _You're already half-way there,_ I think ruefully to myself. "Marco, darling, you're really too kind." I bat my eyes and flutter like some English gentleman and he chuckles. I'm not terribly hungry, so a bottle of water and a muffin do it for me. The lunch room isn't ever really crowded, so finding an empty table isn't a great and glorious feat; it's just really cold in here. I hope it doesn't rain on us tonight.

I blink out of it when Marco's phone buzzes loudly on the table. "Huh," he breathes nonchalantly, checking the screen and opening his bottle of lemonade. "Eren's back early."   

I twist the cap from my water and take a sip to hide the sinking in my stomach. "Rain-check?" I ask lightly.

Marco shakes his head with his lips pressed together, "No," he shrugs, "Figured knowing would be nice in case you were planning any late-night orgies or something."

My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline and I wheeze out a laugh, "Your roomie is into orgies?"

Marco choking is reaction enough to make me smile a little. He laughs at full volume, something I hadn't heard all day, and I get a momentary peek at the silver stud in his tongue. His laugh is clear and bubbly and makes the room feel a little bit warmer. "Hell no! I'm saying he'd probably beat your ass if you brought something like that into the house!" His cheeks are pink and his dimples crater into his face like something straight out of a Disney movie. I kind of wish I could draw this moment to put in my nightstand as a keepsake, but instead rake my hair with both hands and sigh angrily.

"Well, way to rain on my orgy-parade."

Marco and I both laugh and it feels nice. Genuine.

Lunch feels like it lasts longer than usual; I'm not complaining or anything, Marco is the best company I've had in what feels like forever, and each time I think of hanging out with him a swarm of butterflies invades my stomach and flutters around in a whirlwind. Most of my appetite is back by the time class starts and I hurry to suck down the rest of my water and muffin before Professor Zoe walks into the room. They don't seem very into it, with their messy hair pulled back into their regular ponytail, but a crooked shirt and glasses pushed up to their forehead. We have another free day while Professor Zoe just sits in their desk and drinks coffee the whole time. They look pretty hungover if you ask me.

"Rough night for the boss, yeah?" I find myself leaning over to the short blonde girl from my History class with a low voice, speaking out the side of my mouth. Jesus, she's short. Her feet down't even touch the floor in her chair.

"Hm?" She has already started painting, a long, thin brush in her mouth as she squints at the fine detail of her board. I think she's painting another girl, but without a face and only the rough sketch draw out lightly, it's hard to tell. She follows my eyes still looking at Professor Zoe trailing their pinky finger around the rim of their coffee mug with their head in their other hand. "Oh, yeah. I've heard they do that sometimes," She shrugs, "I don't really blame them, though. Some of their classes are filled with a bunch of Neanderthals,"

"And their projects are pretty shitty, too." I joke.

The girl stops painting immediately and looks at me. The vinegar burning my nose is nothing compared to the look she gives me; it sits in my chest and squeezes my heart into my throat. "That wasn't very nice." She scolds and a thin line creases between her brows. "I'm sure they get enough from their other students if it drives them to show up to school hungover, you don't have to build onto that more." She's still scowling disapprovingly at me when her eyes go wide suddenly, like she caught herself, and she scrambles to go back to painting the portrait's hair again. A small picture of whoever she's painting is taped to the bottom right of the wood slab, but the glare from the florescent lights hanging from the ceiling makes it impossible for me to see anything other than a shoulder. 

It wasn't really the girl's words that make me apologize. It was her reaction to saying them.

"Sorry, you're right. I shouldn't have said that."

The girl looks at me and I can tell she's surprised by me. Hell, I am, too. Yeah, record it and listen to it in your own time because I'm not saying that again.

Her staring makes me shrug a little bashfully. "Force of habit, I guess," The warped surface of my blank board is a lot more appealing than her bright eyes searing holes into my head right now, and I stare at it with my arms crossed over my chest to keep the rest of my manhood to myself. I hate the aftereffects of apologizing more than the act. I don't know, it's awkward.

"Thank you," The girl says quietly and brushes a loose tendril of hair behind her ear. "That was very respectable of you."

Oh, God, please don't dwell on it. She's making me blush. "Yeah, well," I don't know what to say now, the awkward in the air around me is going to strangle me. "What's your name?" I manage to choke out before my dying breath.

"Uh," She smiles, "It's Krista," She holds out a hand for me to shake.

"Jean," I say and meet her halfway. Her fingers are cold and send a trail of goose bumps up my arm.

The duration of the class is silent, but at least it isn't awkward or tense. I catch myself glancing at Professor Zoe every now and then and I can see the way their lips are turned down into a small frown and they don't really meet anyone's gaze. It's sad, but not pathetic. They just look tired and I wish I had the power to let them go back to bed and sleep it off.

Maybe I wasn't apologizing for Krista's benefit after all. Maybe I was actually being sincere for once. 

* * *

My new shirt is waiting for me on my bed when I get home. I want to put it on because it's cold, but with my luck, I'll end up getting coffee spilled on it right before I have to leave to pick up Marco. A black zip-up hoodie suffices for now and I dick around on my phone and munch on an apple until it's time to leave. I start doing my hair when it's actually a reasonable time, sniffing at the cologne Mom got me at the mall and lightly spritzing the side of my neck and my wrists. The smell wafts in my nostrils and I nervously fan myself to make sure I didn't put it on too thick like some jackass in a middle-school locker room.

The clouds are even darker than earlier, hanging low and fat in the sky and I grab an umbrella for good measure, keeping my jacket with me. Clarice is in the kitchen with a small bowl of cereal, wearing zero makeup and a messy, blonde ponytail when I go down to grab the keys to the Lexus.

She looks at me questioningly before turning back to her food. "How long are you gonna be out?"

I shove the keys in my pocket and check the clock on the oven. 8:30. "Uh, I don't know," I shrug at her helplessly, "We might go out to eat after the movie or something."

"What's your friend's name?" Her tone is uninterested, but still I keep my guard up.

"Marco," I go to the back door, opening it to a really cold and really dark garage. It wouldn't be worth it to turn on any lights in here. "Don't wait up." The door closing behind me sounds a lot louder in the empty-save-for-me-and-the-cars garage. I feel my way around the dusty walls, bumping into Mom's Taurus only once until finally making it to the Lexus and climb in, pressing the button for the garage opener on the sun-visor and backing out into the street when the door is lifted all the way.

I'm glad for the umbrella after I get off the highway and a few tiny raindrops splat on the windshield. 

Marco comes outside a few seconds after I honk the horn (I'm not walking out there when it's about to start raining buckets. Fuck that noise) and slips into the car before he can be blown over by the strong winds. "Hey," He breathes, running his fingers through his hair. He changed clothes, too, swapping the bright red 'Lagoon' shirt for a trim, black pea-coat with big silver buttons and faded blue jeans, but his Doc Martins are still there. The short hair by his ears sticks together in tiny clumps like he just got out the the shower, and the grown-out Mohawk looks...tamer than usual.

Boy, do I feel under-dressed in a fucking plaid flannel shirt like I'm some scrawny fucking lumberjack. A lumberjean. My shoulders are tense and I'm a little pissed at myself for not even showering (but still a little grateful I at least put on the cologne) as I follow Marco's directions to the nearest movie theater. I usually go to the IMAX near the east side of Trost, so pulling off the freeway two exits early feels weird.

"Green looks good on you," Marco says as an afterthought, looking out the window just as the rain really starts pouring, and I don't even realize it's a compliment until a few seconds later.

I play it cool with a smirk, though the way my chest tightens would prove I'm anything but chill. "You don't look too shabby yourself, Mr. Bodt. Preppy suits you."

Marco makes a face that has me chuckling a bit. "I actually hate this coat, but it's good for sneaking a lot of food into cinemas." He rubs a hand over his chest with a hint of a smile. "Believe it or not, I got a whole box of pizza stuffed into this thing a few years back and never got caught. Oh, turn right, here," 

I follow his instructions obediently before smirking, "Yeah, I don't really believe that. It's too form-fitting for me to believe that."

The street is dark, but the building are all light colors: blues and whites and light browns. The road looks like a black river, rippling mysteriously and the tires of the Lexus skate noisily over the wet pavement. The windshield-wipers squeak rhythmically in front of us, and I let the speed die a little.

Marco smiles, "That's what makes it so undetectable," The smile turns smug, making the metal by his eyebrow glint off the streetlamps passing overhead every couple of feet. "And sixteen year-old girls taking tickets don't pay much attention to protocol when they're ogling at you the whole time."

I can't help rolling my eyes.  _If only it were just sixteen year-olds and girls who abandon protocol for you, ma' boy._  "Thanks anyway, Adonis." I drawl sarcastically and we make it to the theater just as a low rumble of thunder rolls ominously overhead. It's raining pretty heavily now, puddles of water filling potholes in the parking lot with fat raindrops that splash the side of the Lexus. It's going to be a bitch to clean the mud from the black paint later.

There's a spot a few spaces away from the entrance and we sit in the car, debating how fast we should run. The light-up marquee illuminates the car enough that I can see the smile on Marco's face from the corner of my eye when he turns to me all mischievous-like.

"Well, this really dampens the mood."

My head snaps around to glare at him with a look of utter disgust. Oh, my  _God_.

"Get the fuck out of my car,"

Marco giggles like a fucking schoolgirl as he pushes the door open and bolts to the front entrance with me hot on his tail. I ditch the umbrella--I'm soaked to my knees anyway--and lean against the cool metal door frame to regain my breath. It's cold enough out here that I can see our breath escaping in small clouds of grey vapor. What the fuck, it's not even October.

Marco laughs at me, shaking out his hair and speckling me in the face with water. I growl at him and shove him in the shoulder, wiping my face and pulling the glass door open with a big grin. We walk into the theater's front foyer to the thick smell of buttered popcorn. Marco shoulders me lightly when he catches up and we stand there like a bunch of jackasses pushing each other around until we're next in line.

"Two for  _Age of Ultron,_ please," Marco says politely to the bored-looking teller behind the plexi-glass window and pulls out his wallet. I shake out my hair next to him, courteous enough to step away and keep him out of the line of fire, slicking my hair back with my hands and smiling to myself.

We walk through the second set of doors to the concessions and the hallways leading to the different showrooms. My hands feel dirty and cold from the rain and I follow Marco into the bathroom to take his insulin so I can wash my hands and fix my hair. The sleeves of my hoodie resist adamantly, but I finally manage to peel them off me, washing my hands with steaming hot water when Marco comes back out of the stall. He doesn't look at me, keeping his head down, looking at his hands and I wait for him with my hoodie tossed over my shoulder. He holds the door open and puts his arm up high enough that I can walk right under it. A brief moment of panic shakes me suddenly (and for no apparent reason) that maybe I haven't been as discreet in my little crush on him as I thought, that Marco somehow knew and was creeped out. Maybe he heard on the grapevine that I'd called him my boyfriend. I turn around quickly to make sure he isn't giving me a look to confirm my beliefs, but Marco just follows right behind me with a slight smile on his lips.

"Popcorn?" He asks lightly and I can only nod.

For a Friday night, the theater is surprisingly empty. Only one other group of people is in there, and they leave quickly enough that it's just me, Marco and the two people behind the long purple counter selling popcorn, fountain drinks and other miscellaneous candies. We go up to the stand closest to the hall leading to the showrooms and wait for the short blonde to turn around from the popcorn maker.

"Armin?"

He turns around with wide eyes before a smile creeps onto his face. "Hey, Jean! I didn't know you came here?" I hardly recognized him with his longish hair pulled back.

I shrug, "I usually don't, you never mentioned you got the job." I look up at Marco, who smiles politely, if a little awkward. "You remember Marco,"

They smile at each other and exchange handshakes from across the counter. "Which movie are you seeing tonight?" Armin looks between the two of us and I hope like all hell he catches the look in my eyes that screams 'this is not a date!'. To give him credit, his smile is polite and holds no traces of tomfoolery.

 _"The Avengers,"_ Marco and I say in unison.

Armin clicks his tongue on his teeth and nods. His smile stays pleasant. "I haven't seen that one yet, but I've heard good things about it. You'll have to tell me how good it is later." He twitches his head to flick some loose hair from his face and puts a big bag of popcorn on the counter for us. I hadn't even realized he was prepping it and grab a ten from my wallet. He looks down the empty counter, but the other cashier's gone into the back room, and shakes his head at me. "I'm not going to charge you. Friendly discount."

I pause with my hand suspended in the air, still holding the money. "Really?"

Armin nods with a tiny smile that makes his bright blue eyes all smiley. "Just have fun. It's Friday night."

I look at him, a little dazed before blinking, "Wow," I grab the popcorn and pocket my money again. "Thanks, man." I wave briefly to him and walk with Marco to the showroom, and one look over my shoulders shows Armin still looking at us with a big smile. It flickers when he catches my eye, but he just waves at me.

"That was nice of him," Marco says when we get to the door and takes a giant handful of popcorn that he shoves into his mouth. "I'm gonna pass out if I don't eat something," he mutters around the food in his mouth when I raise an eyebrow, "Insulin's kicking in."

"Oh," Wow, way to be a jerk, Kirchstein, "uh, here," I hold out the whole bucket to him. His eyes seem a little droopy, like he's tired, and it kind of scares me. "Are you going to be alright?" That was really fast. He seemed fine just, like, twenty seconds ago. But I don't know how long it takes for hypoglycemia or whatever this is called to kick in, so I don't question it.

Marco looks at me and nods with a loose grin. He leans against the wall with his hands on his knees and takes a deep breath. "I'll be fine." The little black marquee over his head flashes  _Age of Ultron: Now playing,_ reflecting bright red off his dark hair every few seconds.

"Do you need to sit down?" Oh, God I don't know what to do. Please, don't pass out or die, holy shit. I only learned CPR in my Health classes, not how to treat a diabetic with low blood sugar.

"No," he shakes his head. Oh, my God he yawned. That's not a good thing, is it? It can't be. Holy crap, Marco's going to slip into a fucking coma because of me.

I kind of panic and look down the empty hall for help. "Uh, hold on. I'll go get Armin, he knows about this stuff," 

"No, Jean--"

"Just wait here a sec." I turn around to go back out to the front lobby and grab Armin, walking swiftly. I feel a little useless, but I'm not about to do something stupid to protect my ego.

"Jean!" Marco whispers sharply behind me.

I freeze and look back at the door Marco's leaning against, only he isn't leaning against it anymore. And he doesn't look tired either. 

He stands with his arms folded in front of his chest and this scowl on his face that kind of makes me feel like I missed something.

I make it even worse for myself by stuttering. "Wh-What are you doing? Get back against the wall, you're gonna pass out." I walk back up to him and push him so his back is flush against the wall. "I'm getting you something else to eat. You stay here and keep eating like a good boy." I set the popcorn on the top of the garbage bin on the other side of him and try to go back to the front lobby, but Marco grabs my hand--the hand I used to push him against the wall--and stops me.

"But I'm not a good boy," His grip is strong on me and he holds my hand against his chest. The hallway is dim and I can't see his face very well, but his voice is soft, movements slow. "I'm a compulsive liar," He stands up from the wall, keeping my hand in place over his heart. I can't feeling it beating through the thick fabric of his coat, but I'm positive it isn't half as fast as mine suddenly is. "And I rebel just for the fun of it." The smell of popcorn and cologne wraps around me like a blanket (I'm not sure if it's my cologne or his or a mix of the two), and Marco closes the distance between us, putting his other hand over mine on his chest and looming just over me in the dark. His hair tickles my forehead, still slightly damp from the rain.

My throat closes up. My mouth hangs open like a goddamn fish, and I really wish I could see what Marco's eyes look like right now. Are they all seductive, or sweet and warm, or totally joking and happy? My shoulders feel weak and I don't resist when he pulls me closer, putting his left hand on the small of my back.

Holy shit, I can't breathe.

Marco does it for me, taking a deep, slow breath with his forehead still on mine. "Jean," He breathes gently, "Can I--"

"C'mon, Carmen, don't be like that,"

The voice wafting down the hall makes me flinch away a fraction, and Marco immediately backs off. The butterflies that were once swelling up in my chest come to a halt, too, wilting like dead flowers that sit heavily in the pit of my stomach.

"Please, Carmen, we're friends! Do it for me!" I recognize that voice and it makes my knees hurt. Funny how just hearing something can cause you physical pain.

"I told you, Thomas, that's not my name."

"Oh, come off it, Carmen; we're not in high school anymore. You can stop pretending you're a guy now."

I don't know if Marco hears the conversation like I do, or if he hears it at all. I can't tell what he looks like in the dim lighting--probably hurt, or confused, or both--but a small fire has lit inside me and slides like burning ice through my veins, my hands balling into tight fists at my sides. My nails dig into my palms, but it's nothing compared to the trail blazing inside me. I look at Marco and hope he doesn't take the message wrong. "I'm sorry,"

I whip around on my heel, searing my way into the lobby and see none other than Thomas  _fucking_ Wagner wearing a navy and fucking yellow Letterman with his fucking arm around Mina  _fucking_ Carolina in tight black fucking pants and a puke-green jacket. My mind is a cesspool of obscenities that threaten to pour right our of my fucking mouth in a flood that could drown someone at close range, but I hold it in because I have fucking decency unlike some fucking people. Thomas's grin grows a little wider when he sees me approach and I want to sock him right there. God, I hate him.

"Oh, hey, Jean!" Thomas drawls all chummy-like, like we're friends or something. "Good to see a reasonable person around here. Could you  _please_ tell Carmen to knock it off already?" God, his tow-head sideburns are so fucking ugly, I half expect them to start growling at me. "Her special snowflake act is getting old."

I see Armin flinch out of the corner of my eye, and my chest hurts .

I  _really_ hate Thomas fucking Wagner.

" _His_ name is Armin," I almost spit at him. I take a deep breath, keeping my voice even, and fold my arms over my chest, "And you can leave if you don't want to be a decent human being and call him that." A quick glance at Armin shows his ears are bright red, his head down. His lips are pressed together in a tight grimace, his eyes cast down at his hands clutched into fists on the counter. It makes my blood boil hotter and I look back at Wagner with all the hatred in the seven seas.

Thomas's face falls before twisting into something disgusting. "Oh, you're not playing this game, too, are you?"

I glower harder at him, "This isn't a game, Tom,"

His eyebrows furrow and he glares at me, "Don't call me 'Tom',"

 _What a hypocritical piece of regurgitated cat shit,_ "Then stop calling him 'Carmen'." I step closer and square my shoulders, aching to cave his face in with my foot.  _Stay cool, Kirchstein._  I think in the calmest inner voice I can. _No need to commit homicide with so many witnesses._ "It does you absolutely no harm to be decent for once." 

Thomas glares at me before it melts into a smirk, and he drops his arm from the shoulders of Mina who's been scowling at me in annoyance the whole time. Thomas closes the gap between us, his nose poking down into mine: a stupid intimidation tactic I learned to ignore years ago. "Listen here,  _Kirchstein,_ " He growls like the meat-headed Neanderthal he is. And goddamn, his breath reeks of too much Listerine."It might be fun for you and your friends to act like a bunch of bitches playing dress up like it's all fine and dandy, but just because some fucking bitch tells me it isn't PC to call someone what they  _are_ doesn't mean I'm going to call _Carmen_ a _h_ _e_. That's fucking disgusting, and you know it." 

That sets me over the edge. All reason flies away from me and I swing at his stupid jaw. My fist connecting with Thomas's ugly-as-all-hell face gives a satisfying crunch and he falls back.

"Thomas!" Mina cries like some horror movie starlet.

"Jean!" Armin yells at me. His voice cracks and my chest hurts again.

I ignore both of them and pounce on Thomas, giving him another hit in the eye before grabbing him by the collar of his jacket and pulling his face up to mine and glaring at him with daggers in my eyes. "Now  _fucking_ apologize," I growl at him with all the venom in my being. His nose bleeds and the blood trickles down the side of his cheek. I hope he chokes on the stuff going down his throat.

Thomas glares up at me and stays quiet. His jaw sets and his nostrils flare, but he says nothing.

I growl again and throw him down with all the force of heaven and hell together and his head hits the rough carpet with a thick thud. Good. I hope he gets brain damage. I yank him back up to my face. "I  _said_ apologize, you antiquated twat!"

Thomas's neck weakly holds up his head to glare blearily at me and I hope at least I gave him whiplash, at most severed his fucking spinal cord. 

He rolls his jaw before spitting blood and mucus in my face. "Fuck you," he snarls through bloody, gritted teeth. His hands squeeze my wrists tight and try to push me away, but anger makes me stronger than him.

Mina's still yelling at me to let him go, but it's all white noise.

"Suit yourself," I smirk before snatching my left hand out of his grip and slamming my fist right into his jaw. His head snaps to the side and he grunts again, his grip loosening on me. I punch again and again until my whole hand hurts, but it's nothing compared to the red I'm seeing. Now it's not just Tom's nose that is bleeding, but his lip too, his eyebrow. My knuckles bleed, too, but I don't care a bit. I just really want to punch his lights out.

Mina screaming adds to that desire. 

I'm winding up for one final blow, gripping the now-limp Thomas's jacket like my whole life depends on it, when someone seizes me from behind and I'm yanked away. I thrash like a wild animal, clawing angrily to get back and finish off this literal piece of shit, but whoever holds me clamps my arms tightly to my sides with their own wrapped around my chest, eliminating any chances of me pulling free and slaughtering Thomas. They practically drag me away as Mina rushes over to Thomas and helps him sit up. 

"Jean, stop it!" Marco yells at me and yanks me to the side, throwing off my balance and using himself as a human barrier between me and the man I want so desperately to pulverize. He doesn't let me go even when I stop struggling.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Mina sobs at me and helps her newly remodeled boyfriend to his feet. Her mascara runs wildly down her blotchy cheeks, her eyes bright red. "What the fuck is  _wrong_ with you?" She has his arm draped over her shoulder and lugs him away unsteadily with the teller from the front foyer--whom I hadn't seen come in in my blind rage--at her side. Mina keeps putting her hand on Thomas's face, blubbering on about how 'you're gonna be okay' and 'that punk isn't going to get away with this'.

The door closes and the only sounds left in the room is my heavy breathing and the obnoxious popcorn popper. I push away angrily from Marco. "Lay off," I snap, more angry at myself than him, and scowl out into the dark rain still pouring mercilessly outside. "I'm fine."

I look at Armin, who's breathing is almost as heavy as mine, but his cheeks are watery and he stands on the outside of the concessions counter. The other cashier is back, drawn out of the back room by all the commotion and she looks at all of us before turning sympathetically to Armin with an almost awkward look.

"You should probably go home," She says in a soft voice. "I'll cover for you the rest of the night."

Armin looks at her a moment before nodding, his bottom lip folded over his teeth to keep from trembling and a deep line between his brow. The cashier hands him a navy blue jacket to put on over the maroon vest and black button-up and he walks outside by himself. I wait for what feels like forever before looking over at Marco, who looks after Armin with eyebrows cinched together before looking at me with the same expression.

"I'm sorry," I say before following Armin out into the rain, and even I don't think it's that sincere.

The sky is completely black when I step outside, but the wind isn't blowing near as much as before. Armin sits on the edge of the theater steps with his knees pulled up to his chest and his head in his hands. I don't speak when I sit down next to him, but I make sure to scuff my shoes on the concrete to let him know I'm there. It kind of hurts when he flinches away and sniffles.

The rain is the only sound for almost two minutes and then Armin slowly looks up, all bleary-eyed, from his hands. "I'm sorry," He whimpers and wipes his nose. "I-I'm sorry I ruined your date."

The smell of Marco's cologne suddenly goes through my mind and I cringe, "You didn't ruin anything, dude. This was all on me." I stare out at the traffic at the edge of the parking lot. It's only 9:15, but there's hardly any cars whizzing past on the rain-covered street. "And Tom,"

Armin throwing down his hands on his knees makes me look away from him. "Really? 'Cause it seems a lot like none of this would have happened if I weren't here." I finally look at him and he's scowling at me, "I know you were defending me, and I'm grateful that I have a friend who would do that for me, but you can stop now." Armin scrapes his palm roughly over his eyes and looks away. "This stuff usually doesn't bother me, you know? But I just...sometimes...I," He chokes again, baring his teeth, and his eyes well-up with another bout of tears. A giant shiver shakes his shoulders and he slaps a hand over his mouth, " _I wish I was normal!_ " 

I grab Armin and hold him against me while he's tortured with earth-quaking sobs that shake his whole body. He holds tight to my shirt with one hand on his mouth, and screams all his demons into the cold air 'til he can't anymore, and even then he doesn't stop apologizing for being the way he is. I don't let go, even when he's quiet and sniffling against my chest.

I don't know what he needs, but I'll give him anything he asks me at this point if it means he'll stop. If it means he'll be happy.

The glass door behind us closes after almost twenty minutes of sitting out there. I look up at Marco, but he doesn't look at me, just looms behind Armin and I, leaning against the window with a blank expression. I hope he's not mad at me; I can't handle more people mad at me tonight, but especially not him. Then I would know for sure everything was my fault, and it might just consume me.

Marco is silent when he walks up behind me and gently taps my shoulder. I look up at him and he beckons me up.

I shake my head, flicking my eyes back to Armin still clinging to me for dear life.

Marco shakes his head and pinches his thumb and index together wiggling his wrist. I finally get it and pull the keys to the Lexus out of my pocket and put them gently in his waiting hand, doing my best not to stir Armin, and Marco runs out into the parking lot with an arm over his head in a vain attempt to keep dry.

I reach up and rub a thumb softly over the back of Armin's hand. His skin is cold, but he looks up at me. He'd stopped screaming a while ago, but tears still run down his cheeks and his eyes are all red and puffy. My chest hurts just looking at him.

"We're going to take you home, okay?" I murmur down at him with the softest expression I can manage, but Armin shakes his head weakly, looking away.

"Could you drop me off somewhere else? I don't to be reminded that...that I'm," His voice does that weird strangled thing it does when someone's trying to keep from crying and I just nod.

"Yep." I nod and rub his arm to keep him warm and the Lexus rolls slowly to the front of the theater. I take off my jacket and drape it over Armin, running ahead of him to open the door and help him inside. Dad's gonna be pissed that the seats are all wet, but I really couldn't care less about that now, resuming my position of comfort with Armin in my chest and my arms wrapped tight around his shoulders.

Marco's looking at me through the rear-view mirror. His freckles are nearly invisible in the dark, but his eyes are wide and bright, asking me where we're going. I kind of feel bad for what I'm about to do.

I'm still rubbing Armin's shoulders, pushing all thoughts of mine and Marco's almost-kiss to the deep recesses of my brain for later. "Can we go to your place?" I ask in a low voice. It's all I can think of; my own home would be the last place I would want Armin going at any time, let alone now. I try to keep my face serious, not letting the aching in my chest show.

Marco just stares at me another moment before nodding and puts the car into drive. 


	5. Repercussions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the late update this time! There was a time period of about two weeks where I couldn't write anything because of personal stuff, and when I got back I had the worst writer's block ever! However, that is no excuse. I will try much harder to update sooner because y'all deserve that!

The ride to Marco's place is a silent one, though I don't let it hit me as awkward. Just a little tense. I feel Marco's gaze on me still clutching Armin to my side, but I just stare out the window. I'll talk to Marco later, when I'm wearing dry clothes and not still brewing over the whole Thomas debacle from earlier. 

The porch light is on when Marco pulls into the driveway, and I hold the umbrella over Armin as the front door is unlocked for us. I don't even care that I'm soaked to the skin anymore, I just want to go to bed and forget this whole thing ever happened. I lead Armin quietly, and a little awkwardly, down to Marco's living room and Marco himself trails upstairs to talk to his roommate. I pray he doesn't go into detail on what happened, but there really isn't anything I can do about it now.

"I hate to get the couch wet," Armin mutters when I finally push him down into the cushion and plop down next to him. "It's really nice in here."

I shrug out of my jacket and flannel shirt, stripping down to the grey t-shirt and my jeans. My skin feels cold and rubbery and I scrub my arms to get some heat back into them. "Just blame me if he gets mad,"--he won't, trust me--"I doubt he'll even care at this point." I push my wet hair from my forehead, wanting a nice, hot shower to get me warmed up again. "You just went through hell, man, a couple of water stains on the upholstery isn't going to be anything, okay?"

He doesn't answer me. He just stares at the corner of the room with his face angled away from me and his arms wrapped tight around him like he's going to fall to pieces any second.

"Okay?" I repeat like a fucking mother hen.

Armin is quiet, still not looking at me, but he finally nods, slow and barely noticeable. He keeps his knees pressed together and doesn't lean back on the couch, caving in on himself to conserve space. "It was nice seeing you, anyway." 

"You too," and he just nods again.

I doubt he's going to make much eye contact the rest of the night.

Armin flinches and I turn my head when a small knock comes from the hall. Marco's standing there with wet hair slicked back and his coat off. He throws his thumb over his shoulder for me to follow him and I give him a short, quick nod.

"I need to talk to Marco for a bit. I'll see if I can get you a change of clothes," I squeeze Armin's shoulder before standing and leaving the room.

The hall light is off and I stick out a hand to run along the stucco. I had wanted to do this the whole time I was here last week, but now it feels wrong, the ridges and cracks don't feel as cool as I wanted them to. Marco leads the way to a closed door at the end of the hall on our right, and my heart rate picks up. I know he's going to say something, that I led him on and he's confused and I have to explain everything and I just don't want to. I don't want to.This is something I prefer  _not_ to think of with him there, a situation I prefer to keep under lock and key.

My stomach sinks just thinking about it.

Marco's on me as soon as the door clicks into place. "I'm not going to ask about the gory details," He prefaces with an almost tired expression, "but I need an explanation for why I just saw you beating the shit out of some random guy and why one of your friends is crying on my couch."

He's blocking the door, my only escape, and looks at me with an expression I don't want to look too hard at. I take it that he isn't too mad, but the tenseness in my shoulders still doesn't leave. I wring my hands in front of me. "W-well, um,"  _Can we just leave it at 'I don't like the random guy's sense of style' or something petty like that?_ " Thomas is anything but random."

"You know him?"

Lord kill me now. "Yeah,"

I don't look at Marco to see what his face looks like. "School?" He asks slowly.

"...high school," I flick my eyes to him and quickly away, angling my body so he can't see the way my chest is caving in on itself from the black hole replacing my lungs.

"Okay." Marco nods for me to continue. At least he doesn't look like he wants to eat me like I was expecting. It's still hard to keep my eyes on his. They're gonna burn a hole right through my skull.

The air around us is thick and hard to breathe. It's like I'm trying to inhale Jell-o through a coffee straw, and I take a deep breath through my nose. It's not my place to tell any of this, but it's going to come out sooner or later. A pit opens in my stomach, and it feels like the muscles in my neck and back are about to tear apart from how tense they are. I take another breath before starting.

"Armin and I have been friends since we were kids. He's always been a little weird and really smart, so...he was kind of an easy target for bullies." I chance a glimpse at Marco. He stares steadily at me, expression unreadable and the pit in my gut gets just a little bit wider. I flick my eyes away again, staring at the dark blue comforter on his bed instead."Uh...there was this camp our 8th grade year, something for future entrepreneurs or some shit like that, and we went together. It was only a week long, but we weren't really supervised and had a lot of free time." The next sentence catches in my throat, and I have to clear my throat twice before continuing. I hope the walls of Marco's room, painted a soft beige that's suffocating me right where I stand, close in completely before I can continue. I don't want to say anything. It isn't my place. "Armin and I...we did some...experimental things--" Another quick glance at Marco to make sure he understands what I mean by 'experimental' before flitting my eyes away to look at my hands still twisting uncomfortably in front of my stomach. "--some kids found out and it was all over school the next year. Thomas was kind of the ringleader, I guess. But nothing really serious happened until Armin...came out." 

I pick at the skin around my nails nervously, waiting for a reaction. I don't get one for a long time and it's eating away at me. I know I told him way too soon. And I told him things that I shouldn't have. It's not my place to tell about Armin's problems, not my place to tell his secrets to someone he barely knows. This going to come back and bite me in the ass.

My stomach hurts.

Marco stares at me for a long time before he finally unfolds his arms. "Okay," is the only thing he says to me. I look up at him and his face is soft, devoid of anything but understanding. A slight smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, but it doesn't joke. "I'll some clothes for you and Armin. Do you want a shower?"

 _Holy Jesus, this kid is a fucking saint._ "N...no," I stutter dumbly, standing on the other side of the room. "But can Armin?"

"Of course, Jean," I take a slight step back as Marco breezes past me to get to his closet. He folds the door open and grabs a pair of black sweatpants for me and a white t-shirt. He makes a sure point to get a large purple Trost U hoodie for Armin and a pair of boxers. He hands the clothes to me with a gentle smile and I walk back down the hall kind of in a daze.

Did that really just happen? He was so...receptive. I mentally kick myself for really thinking anything other than that would happen, though. Now I just have to find the fucking rosary and vestments Marco is hiding from me. 

I walk back into the living room to the sound of low chuckling. Armin's still there, but now someone's sitting with him. I quickly recognize the bright blue streak and the white ring in his right nostril.

Eren's curled up on the seat next to Armin with his legs folded under him, and they're both chowing down on a bowl of Mac N' Cheese. Armin notices me first and gives me a friendly smile. "Hi, Jean," He says. His voice is still a little raw, but it's definitely a lot happier than a few minutes ago.

"Hey," I say only a little bit confused, and Eren whips his head around to look at me with a dark eyebrow raised at me. "I...brought you some clothes." I hold up the hoodie and boxers a little awkwardly.

"Oh!" Armin stands from the couch and walks over to me and takes the clothes graciously, "Thank you!" He smiles up at me before looking just past my face, the smile fading just barely. "Uh, where's your bathroom?" He asks politely as ever.

"Second door on the right," Marco says smoothly behind me, and my face floods with color. I look sheepishly back at him, just as he leans into the bathroom, pushing the door open and turning on the light for Armin. He's traded his soaked jeans and t-shirt for a black  _Geeksquad_ sweatshirt and navy basketball shorts. "And you can put your clothes in the laundry room to be dried."

I can't help the feeling of awkwardness that seizes over me as Armin freaking abandons me with these two incredibly hot (well, at least one of them is) probably capable of killing me metalheads. I stand in the middle of the entrance to the living room, still in my waterlogged clothes before hastily excusing myself and scurrying back to Marco's room and stripping down. My jeans stick to my rubbery legs, and the sweatpants offer no real heat until I scrub the fabric over my skin to add some by friction. And the t-shirt is too big.

I put my shoes and clothes into the dryer before rejoining Marco and Eren in the living room. The TV is on some game show, but neither pays attention to it, talking to each other. I sit next to Marco, preferring him over Eren's electric green eyes any day. I tuck my feet under my thighs to warm up my toes, and sit a bit away from Marco because I'm awkward as shit, I've busied myself with picking at my nails again when their conversation suddenly stops.

"So..." Eren starts after a moment that feels like a fucking eternity. "How did you two meet?"

Oh, my god. I shoot a deathly glare at Marco, my fingernails completely forgotten as I channel all my telepathic energy at him and tell him not to do what I already know he's going to. I narrow my eyes at the cheeky little grin planted firmly on his face as he slowly turns his head to leer deviously at me.

"Don't you fucking dare," I hiss helplessly at Marco.

Something purely evil glints in Marco's eyes, and he's still staring at me. "Well..."

"Marco, I swear to god,"

"Y'see..."

"I will gouge your fucking eyes out,"

"It's kind of a funny story..."

"You think I'm fucking kidding?"

Holy shit, my face is on fire and I can't bring myself to look at Eren sitting all confused on the other sofa. I take back everything I said about Marco being a saint, he's actually the fucking devil himself, the piece of shit.

Marco's face is mischievous and I can already smell the beans he's about to spill right there in front of us. I give him one final, murderous look, shaking my head vaguely. I swear to god, if he says anything that will strip me of the little dignity I have left, I will skin him right here.

"Eren?" Marco asks with a falsely light voice and looks over to his roommate.

"Yes, Marco?" Eren has the same look of malice in his face. I want to fling myself off the nearest cliff. I want to drag Marco down with me.

"Do you remember that night I came home reeking of vomit?"

Eren scoffs and I can feel myself flushing more if that's even possible, "How could I forget?"

Marco doesn't give a verbal answer, just throws his arm over my shoulder and shakes me all chummy-like and keeps grinning at Eren. I'm going to die right here, and I'm going to haunt Marco the rest of his fucking life. Marco just chuckles.

Eren stares blankly at us for a moment before a wide, toothy grin cracks his features and he howls with laughter, throwing his head back. He clutches his sides and topples over on the couch. "HOLY _SHIT_!" He roars and I really want to crawl into a cave and live the rest of my days as a reclusive hermit. It seems I have a penchant for picking bad friends. "That was _you_?! Oh, my GOD!" 

Marco's chest shakes and he laughs right along with Eren, keeping his arm wrapped tight around my shoulders, planting me firmly next to him, and I wallow in my own shame. So much for making nice friends. 

They laugh like that for a whole two minutes, each time one finally gathers some composure, the other breaks and the cycle starts again. Eren can't even look at me with a straight face anymore. Marco finally let's me go and I scoot as far from him as possible, but they don't let it drop until Armin comes back into the room, hair still slightly damp, and skin glowing healthily. His chest is completely hidden behind the dark fabric of Marco's hoodie.

"Thank you," He sighs and sits next to a red faced, still giggling Eren. "I feel a lot better now," Armin smiles happily at Marco who returns it.

"My pleasure, man,"

I don't know if Marco knows what that does, but Armin is smiling the rest of the night.

* * *

We end up watching a couple episodes of  _Orange is the New Black._ I forgive Marco after one episode, and scoot closer to him so I can get a better look at the TV. I'm sure it's just my imagination, but I feel like he's staring at me a lot of the time; I don't turn around to check, though. That would be weird.

Eren's one of those annoying people who have to comment on everything happening in a movie, booing at basically everyone that isn't one of the lesbians in jumpsuits (not that I don't agree with him) and complaining that the main character is actually the most annoying person in the whole show (again, I agree). At one particular moment when it seems like we're actually a bunch of fuckboys watching lesbian porn together, he pipes up in his best meathead voice. "What's bettah than this?" He says with a grin, "Guys bein' dudes," He laughs and I see the way Armin's eyes sparkle as he agrees with him.

Thankfully, they're both silent the rest of the episode.

It's not until we've started episode four that I hear Eren snoring. I turn my head and see him slouched down on the sofa, his feet lain over Armin's thighs, one arm draped lazily over his eyes. Armin doesn't seem to mind, a big smile on his face the whole time, and we all laugh when Eren emits a particularly loud, throaty snore that could easily cause earthquakes in a small country.

"I think I'll sleep out here," Armin says softly after Marco turns off the TV and the living room is plunged into darkness save for a street lamp outside casting an orange glare through the curtains. 

Marco laughs quietly and stands, grunting loudly when his back pops. "He's usually not so touchy. Sorry you have to deal with him laying all over you." He grabs a blanket from his side of the couch and tosses it at Armin, who catches it deftly, situating himself on the couch so that his laying on the length of it the opposite way of Eren. 

Armin shakes out the blanket and drapes it over the both of them, and I stand to follow Marco. We feel our way down the hall to the sound of Eren sawing logs in the other room, and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing at how comically loud it is. 

"I hope you know I'm not letting you sleep out there with those two," Marco says when we make it to his room. "And Eren's room is a deathtrap, so that's out of the question, too." He flicks on the light and I blink slowly to adjust to how bright it suddenly is. He walks to the left side of his bed and peels back the sheets, "But, like, no homo,"

I just stare at him for a moment, not really sure what to do with myself. He's actually  ~~demanding~~  asking that I sleep in the same bed as him. At the same time. And I'm pretty sure he was being sarcastic about the whole 'no homo' thing. Sweet lord in heaven. I blink once before smirking over at him.

"No homo is for the weak,"

I flick the light back off and crawl to the other side of the bed. His sheets are flannel and holy crap they feel nice on my cold feet. And his pillows all smell like his cologne. I have to refrain from taking a huge whiff. There's another streetlamp outside,  or maybe it's the same one from the living room, that casts long shadows over the wall opposite the window above Marco's bed, but it doesn't illuminate enough for me to see any real shapes in the dark. Only vague lumps of different shades of darkness. I think I can see it reflecting off one of Marco's piercings; I think it's the one on his lip.

It's quiet enough in Marco's room that I can hear the crickets chirping outside, and I think he's fallen asleep already until I hear him sigh next to me in a tired kind of way that can't exactly be unconscious. I don't say anything.

The silence stretches on until Marco finally breaks it. 

"Jean?" He actually sounds a little hesitant. 

"Yeah,"

"...I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable. At the theater, I mean. Don't think I do stuff like that all the time, 'cause I really don't."

I scowl up at the ceiling in a not angry way. I think I can see some design up there but I'm not sure. "Huh?"

Marco sighs again, long and low. "I should have asked you if I could kiss you before I pulled you on me like that. I won't do it again. I just don't want you to think I'm a creep like that..." His voice trails off a little, soft and breathy at the end, and I can't help turning to look at him even if I can't see his face in the dark. "Just tell me and I'll back off." He hesitates a moment, "I don't want you to stop hanging out with me because I did something to you that you didn't like."

I stare at Marco's silhouette in the darkness for a long time, particularly at the glint from his lip ring, and speak without really thinking. I turn my head back to the ceiling, scowling at nothing and feel my nails digging into my palms. God, I'm so tired. This whole night was awful. I just want to fall asleep and not wake up, slip into a coma for ten years or something like that. The darkness of the room does little to make me feel any better. "It's fine, dude." I say with a sinking in my gut. I want to ask if we could give it another shot, with no interruptions this time, but...I don't want to risk messing it up again. At least not this soon. I want to make sure my head is clear when it finally happens, not muddled with stress over friends or possible restraining orders or law suits.

The slight shuffle of fabric and I can see Marco's profile shift to look at me. "Really?" 

I laugh quietly, but it feels far from sincere. "Yeah," I'm not going to say anything, but my heartbeat spikes anyway. "We should try that again," 

 _Oh my god. Holy shit, change it, don't catfish him, please!_ "The movie, I mean."

I hear Marco catch his breath, but he lets it out before I do mine. "I'd be okay with that," His voice sounds put out and I know it's my fault. It's all my fault. I totally jinxed myself hoping our night out would run smoothly, and now I'm digging my grave a little deeper. I really hate myself and want to curl in a ball under my bed and wait to rot right there.

It's silent again for a long time, and I think Marco's finally fallen asleep. Good. Sweet dreams,man; that's one place where I can't fuck _everything_ up. But I can have no such luck.

"Jean?"

"Yeah,"

"I should probably warn you." Marco hesitates slightly, "I cuddle sometimes," I can't really tell if his small, breathy laugh is from embarrassment or something else, but I roll with it.

I grab the pillow under my head and squeeze it tight to my chest. I prefer sleeping without pillows anyway. "That's okay. I'll manage if you do." I flip away so I can't see the look of judgement Marco's probably giving me right now. "Goodnight."

"...'Night, Jean."

If it does anything to make Marco hate me a little more or a little less, he doesn't say anything.

* * *

Marco lied about the cuddling; I received absolutely zero percent cuddling from him that night. What I  _did_ get, however, were two arms and a leg thrown over me, wrapping around me like some fucking iron jaws and cramming me right into Marco's chest, and Marco's chin resting softly on the crown of my head. Not cuddling.

More like strangling.

But, he smells nice, so I'll let it slide.

I don't have to sleep like that the whole night, though. At some point, around two or three in the morning, Marco wakes up and let's me go, rolling slowly out of bed and leaving the room. I'm too groggy myself to ask where he's going, when I see him slip something small and compact into the pocket of his shorts and I remember his blood sugar.

_Not only do I have to check it before meals, but before and after exercising, before bed and sometimes in the middle of the night._

That must really suck. Maybe it's like an internal alarm thing now; I didn't hear a buzzer go off or anything. Or maybe he can feel it dropping. I make a mental note to ask him sometime.

Marco comes back in the room like he's severely drunk, and I listen to him stumble back to his bed. He resumes position with me shoved right next to him and is snoring in seconds, the poor thing. I know someone's not going to be easily woken in the morning. 

I finally let myself relax into the warmth of his sweatshirt, still catching the faint smell of his cologne as I'm lulled to sleep by Marco's steady breathing and the rhythmic beat of his heart. I'm not sure what the deal is, but I'm kind of scared of him. Wait, no, that sounds wrong. I'm not scared of Marco; I'm scared of leading him on. There's nothing to lead him to, and I know it's not really considered leading on if I like him, too, but I feel like if we  _did_ become a thing or something, it'd fizzle out fast when he's reminded of how much of a loser I am. 

I wake up in that same position and Marco's still snoring with half of his face buried in my hair. The bluish light of early morning streams through the barely parted curtains, casting columns of sunlight onto the left side of the bed, and I stare silently at the tiny dust motes floating in and out of sight, barely moving to let Marco sleep. I can hear the slight trill of birdsong through the window if I focus enough. And it's hot in here.

The whole house feels at peace, even with the sound of Eren sawing down a whole forest at the end of the hall. My arm's asleep under Marco's head, and he moves to rest on my chest, fistfuls of my shirt tightening and his leg constricting to keep me close when I pull my arm out from under him. I'm trapped here for a good two hours if my estimation of the time is right. But I'm okay with staying here forever.

But oh my god, it's hot.

The problem is, I'm not tired. I've never slept very long or very heavily, so six hours is good for me. And Marco's hot. I feel like I'm on the brink of heatstroke right now, sweet mercy. Wearing sweatpants to bed seemed like a no-brainer last night, but now I feel like each of the nine circles of hell are wrapped right around my legs and burning hot bands into them. I'm on fire, oh my  _god._ And being in such close proximity to another person, and a living furnace no less, is not doing me any good, either.

I look down at Marco (or try to. His head is right in the center of my chest and I can't move my neck far enough to see his face) and try to wake him. I really hope it's not like poking a sleeping bear, I don't feel like getting stitches today.

Marco doesn't move and I poke him again right in the middle of his forehead. Nothing. Jeez, I'm gonna have to get the fucking Ouija board out, he sleeps like the dead. I flick him on the top of the head, but he's totally unresponsive.

I finally get a reaction (however small) when I lightly squeeze Marco's nose. He grunts and swats drowsily at my hand, burrowing his face deeper into my chest and sending a fucking heatwave right into the deepest reaches of my soul. Oh my god, get off me; I'm going to die if I don't move soon. My legs feel like they're laying right over a slow cooker.

I pinch Marco's nose again and he grabs my wrist to pull me away.

"Stop," He grunts like a fucking bear. "What's wrong?"

"I'm fucking hot as hell,"

"Yeah, you are." 

"Not that kind of hot,"

Marco grunts again and is silent for a few moments, turning his face into my shirt. I think he's fallen back asleep and want to succumb to the flames of hell under this fucking thick-as-hell blue blanket, but then he groans and turns his head away from me again and takes a long, deep breath. "What time is it?" He croaks in the huskiest, sleepiest voice ever. Not only is he hot, but damn, he's  _hot._

I look at the ceiling, finding a smiley face and a girl with flow-y hair up there. "I don't know. Morning? It's hot, though."

"Ugh, I know." Marco pushes away from me. "It's too humid for this..." I think he says something more, but it's in that rushed, breathy voice you get in the morning when it's too early to properly function. Or speak correctly. He rolls over and shoves his face into his pillow with a deep sigh, pushing me away from him with his foot.

I gladly slide out of the fucking sauna that is Marco's bed, pulling at the collar of my shirt to get some airflow. I turn back to the barely noticeable lump under the covers, taking note of Marco's hair flopped all over his pillow in disarray. I just barely see the tip of one of the feathers, the bright blue one, behind his right ear and can't help the small smile that graces my lips. "Hey, Marco?"

He grumbles a low "Wha" in delayed response.

"Can I take a shower?"

Marco doesn't even turn around or speak, only slowly crooks his arm enough that it's over the covers and gives me a lazy thumbs-up before his wrist goes limp and his hand flops onto the pillow.

I scoff to myself with a grin and go in the direction of the bathroom, grabbing a dark towel from the tiny linen closet behind the door. Thankfully, Marco's shower has two dials, none of that bullshit about balancing on the hairline-thick median between Siberian ice bath and Satan's piss. The water's colder than what I'm used too, but it feels nice on my sweaty body. I make sure to take it easy on the shampoo and shower gel, not wanting to be that asshole friend who uses half the bottle in one fell swoop, but I'm in there a lot longer than I usually would be. I mostly stare at the dark tiled wall in thought; I've put myself in one big fucking mess right now and I don't really now how I'm going to avoid the whole thing when I get home. Especially if Dad's there.

The mirror isn't even foggy when I finally step out of the shower. I scrub my hair quickly and rub any remaining water from my body before rinsing the bad morning taste from my mouth with a bit of mouthwash. Dark circles shadow under my eyes like usual, but they're not really noticeable. I splash my face with cold water, just to wake up a little more, and tiptoe out of the bathroom. 

My clothes are dry, if a little wrinkly, and I smooth the grey t-shirt on my chest to make it a little less noticeable as I walk back out of the laundry room. Eren's not on the couch anymore, and Armin's looking through his phone with his hair pulled back in a tiny half-ponytail like last night.

"Good morning," Armin says in greeting, his voice soft and a little sleepy, "Sleep well?"

I scoff and sit down next to him, lifting his feet to rest in my lap and pick a bit of lint from one of his socks before answering. "For basically being smothered I guess I slept all right." I shrug and fold my arms over my chest, leaning back and lolling my head to look at Armin still going through his phone. "You look like shit."

He glances up at me and I get a good look at the circles under his eyes. He clicks off his phone and rubs his knuckles over his eyelids, grimacing his way through a yawn. "I kind of feel like it, too. This couch isn't all that great for sleeping to begin with; sharing it with another person is another story entirely." He stretches his arms in front of him and his shoulders, elbows, and back pop in near tandem.

"Eren not a good sleeping buddy?" I give him a sympathetic look.

Armin shakes his head quickly, snapping out of his sleepiness almost instantly. "No, no!" he backtracks, "It's just a bit crowded, you know? Eren hardly ever moved and was actually really conservative with space. Sleeping on the arm of a couch is just bad for your back and I woke up a lot during the night."

"I'm sorry,"

Armin has it in him to laugh and wave me off, if a little tiredly. "Don't be. Eren's pretty good company while he's asleep." He smiles a little and brings his knees to his chest. My legs feel a little weird without the weight of his pressing on them, but I don't say anything.

I look around the room, but it's void of any other life than us. "Where  _is_ Eren, anyway?"

Armin shrugs. "He went upstairs to make some breakfast a few minutes ago."

And as if on cue, from up the stairs the shrill screaming of a fire alarm goes off and the sound of a door being thrown open. I think I here Eren cursing something, but I don't understand what, and raise an eyebrow at Armin. We both start laughing and trail our way upstairs toward the thick smell of smoke and Eren probably flapping a towel to get the stench out. His kitchen is a sunny yellow (although currently clouded with smoke) that looks soft orange in the bright light of the morning, and I can't say I'm surprised anymore at this point. There's fucking flower-print wallpaper in this place, no doubt there's a knitting room somewhere in here, too.

"I'm a strong supporter of colon health," Eren smiles amiably while setting down a plate of half-burnt pancakes. "Just looking out for my new friends. Can't have you getting cancer,"

I look at the pancakes for a moment before shrugging and selecting one for myself. I'm just going to take this whole day in stride, fly by the seat of my pants; and I can always add more syrup if it's that bad. Which, surprisingly, it really isn't.

"Thank you!" Armin says brightly, but I notice he still takes one of the smallest pancakes.

Eren shrugs and sits down, "No problem," he helps himself to a stack of three, "My milk was going bad anyway. I needed to get rid of it somehow."

I freeze and put my fork down, looking incredulously at Eren. I ignore the half-chewed food in my mouth and just stare at him. "You made these with bad milk?" Ew. Milk is fucking disgusting anyway, I don't need more reason  _not_ to drink it.

Eren smirks and flips some flattened hair from his face. "Freshly spoiled milk makes the best pancakes," His chair creaks obnoxiously when he leans forward and takes a giant bite from his own food. "Eweryboby knows thad," he drawls past the "freshly rotten" food in his mouth. He keeps up our little staring contest with narrowed eyes.

"It's actually true," Armin nods (traitor) along with Eren and takes a testing bite of pancake, "It's been proven many times that milk just past its expiration date is best for cooking with. It makes pancakes fluffier,"

I just roll my eyes. 1) because it's too damn early to be arguing over something as stupid as spoiled milk and 2) I don't have anything to argue back with. Not that I really care. It's milk for God's sake.

I don't have that long to brood because the stairs slowly groan and only moments later a very disgruntled, very much dead-looking Marco lumbers into the kitchen like something straight out of a zombie movie. He collapses in the chair between me and Armin and sets his head on the table with an exhausted little huff.

"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty," Eren chuckles.

"Morning," Marco groans with his face still shoved into the plastic tablecloth. His voice sounds a little clearer than earlier, but barely. "What's burning?" He doesn't move his head, but his hands reach up to rake through his chronic bedhead. Good luck taming that beast. But it's cute.

He's cute.

And I know I shouldn't be thinking like that after what I did last night. I really shouldn't be here at all right now.

"What time is it?" I ask suddenly.

Eren freezes, in the middle of shoving a plate of his charred monstrosities in front of Marco before clicking his tongue on the inside of his cheek and checking his phone. "Uh," he breathes, mouth still full of pancakes, "9 o'clock."

Jackpot.

Armin gasps with food in his mouth and chokes for a moment. "Is it really that late? My first class starts at ten!" He croaks, politely denying a glass of water from Eren and standing up. "You have your car don't you, Jean?"

I put my fork down with a clank on the my glass plate (a little too eagerly, but no one says anything if they notice) and push away from the table. "Yeah."

Marco, whom I thought had fallen back asleep, perks his head up a little to look at me with the biggest fucking puppy-dog eyes I have ever seen. "Sorry to split so soon." I apologize quickly and lean into the threshold so he can still see me, even as I'm being dragged away by a tiny blond boy, "You know how education is," I roll my eyes, resisting Armin only a little. "It demands to be learned."

"Drive safe," Eren calls from down the hall, "Come back anytime."

I pull the door shut behind me with Armin still scurrying around even if we're literally fifteen minutes away from Rose Tech and it's barely nine thirty, but not before seeing a fully awake Marco at the top of the stairs, hair still mussed into oblivion, and a look on his face that I can only describe as slightly worried confusion. I catch his eye and give him a half smile and a small wave before the door is closed and I'm walking back to the Lexus.

* * *

Armin makes it to class before nine forty-five, mostly because I speed the whole way there, but also because the hall he's scheduled for is at the front of campus. I give him one of the spare notebooks I have stashed in the trunk of the car (you never know when you might need some doodle paper; or note paper, whichever floats your boat) and drive off when he's starts climbing the steps. It takes me ten goddamn minutes to finally get out of the labyrinthine campus and on the east-bound highway to get back home. Dad goes to work early in the morning and Mom usually goes to a country club or something on Saturdays, so the only person I really have to worry about is Clarice. And she sleeps in pretty late most days.

But apparently not today.

"Did you spend the night at your friend's?" She is sitting on the couch with a bottle of creamy nail polish, watching _America's Next Top Model,_ hair pulled up again and in full "Ugly Saturday" mode. She would probably body slam me if I said that, so I just ignore her and stare at the TV screen as Tyra Banks flips over her pictures and another model is disqualified.

"Uh," I shrug off my coat and drape it over the back of the couch, "Yeah," I'm not incredibly interested in the TV, I don't really like the models they have this season (too many tears), but I sit down next to Clarice anyway, propping my feet up on the coffee table. If Mom were here, she'd yell at me to at least take my shoes off first, and probably at Clarice for having nail polish on the couch, but she's not, so whatever. I won't tell if Clarice doesn't.

Clarice nods and turns her attention back to her toes. The color makes her skin look tanner, almost orange-y, but it's pretty, I guess. "How was the movie?" She asks lightly, "Recommendable?"

This is the part I was kind of dreading. I knew she was going to ask sooner or later, but I don't know what to say. I can't mention anything about Armin, Clarice is oblivious to that whole thing, but I don't really know what else to come up with. The thought of last night makes my stomach hurt, and then the thought of fucking things up with Marco and running off without really apologizing makes me feel cold even though it can't be less than sixty-six degrees in here. "We, uh, didn't see it, actually," I pick at my nails, trying to seem indifferent, but I don't know how I'm coming across. "It was pretty crowded, and...Marco has problems with crowds." 

 _Is that_ really  _the best you can come up with, Kirchstein?_ I want to roll my eyes at myself. But Clarice buys it.

She doesn't sound very interested, putting the cap on her polish and gingerly placing her feet next to mine on the coffee table. "'Problems with crowds' as in he'll turn into something like the Hulk, or, like, social anxiety?" 

That makes me smile. Leave it up to Clarice to make sarcastic jokes about  _everything._ Not that I don't do the exact same thing literally all the time. What we lack in familial resemblance, we make up for with mental similarity. But don't ask which side of the family we get it from, we have no idea.

"I think the former," I smirk with faux-assurance. "I mean, he hasn't  _said_ anything to suggest it, but he's really big into exercise and, like, breathing techniques."

"I bet it's to control his anger," Clarice nods sarcastically, pretending to be convinced.

"It'd make sense,"

"You should look into that," She suggests and runs a hand through the few strands of blonde hair falling out of her ponytail, pushing them away from her face. "Set up some Avengers of your own. You could be _Iron Man;_ you're a big enough ass." 

Clarice scoffs and I punch her lightly in the shoulder, smiling genuinely.

We goof around like that for a little bit, poking and pinching at each other like a bunch of little kids, and it feels nice to forget a little of what happened last night. Clarice swats at my hand and digs her fingers into my neck lightning quick, making me cram my jaw down to keep from being tickled. I flinch away from her, laughing. 

"So what  _did_ you do last night, then?"

I have to fight the urge to let my face drop. I almost give in, but come up with something before I can. I smirk playfully, rolling my eyes in her direction. "Before or _after_ the mass orgy?"

Clarice raises her eyebrows, a look of impression plastered on her face, "Kinky," she simpers lightly, "but after,"

I click my tongue and roll my eyes to the ceiling like I'm trying to remember something, but I'm really trying to come up with a convincing enough lie. "Mm. Went back to his place and watched some movies. I fell asleep on the couch after a while. It was pretty boring really."   

"I'm sorry,"

"Don't be. It really wasn't that bad, just uneventful." _And a great example of the biggest lie I have **ever** told in my entire life._  If last night were really to be described as uneventful, my real career option should be somewhere in the field of something like an explosives expert.

"Better than being here," Reese says, still looking at the TV. Her tone is no longer joking, but serious, and a little ticked off. "Mom and Dad got into a fight. I called Hannah and we hung out for a little while, but Dad was gone when I got home." She examines her nails disinterestedly, "I think he's planning another business trip."

I sigh irately and my gaze turns into a glare at the corner of the room. "I hate when he does that."

"I think we all do,"

Reese gets a call from Hannah after a few more minutes of sitting there, and I go upstairs to take a shower and change into some clean clothing. I don't feel like going back downstairs and busy myself with working on Professor Zoe's project (I decided to just look up a random picture of a model and do that) until my phone starts ringing. I cringe at seeing the contact and hesitantly answer.

"...Hey, Sash," I gingerly set down my steel wool and vinegar, preparing myself for the worst.

Now, I'm embarrassed to say this, but I almost drop my phone and hit the ceiling when she responds.

" _Jeankirschsteinwhydidn'tyouansweryouphonelastnightwhatthefuckareyoudoing!!!"_  The scariest part is she says it all in one breath. _  
_

"Sasha I-"

"I don't want to hear it!" She yells like some harried mother. I want to hang up, but I also have no doubt she would kill me if I did, so I tough it out. "I called you last night and three times this morning! What the fuck kind of stuff were you doing that you don't have enough time to talk to  _me?_ "

"Nothing," I mumble like a little boy being reprimanded. 

"You bet your ass it was nothing!" She clears her throat and just as quickly changes back into her regular, human self. "Anyway, how was you night?" She asks in an almost singsong voice that gives me the honest-to-god creeps.

"It was..fine. I saw Armin," I mutter, a little deflated. I saunter back to my bed and flop down with my face in the pillow, but angle my head so I can still talk clearly. "And Thomas,"

Sasha seethes on the other end of the line. "What an awful person."

I don't say anything.

Sasha doesn't either for a long time. "...Did something happen?"

The pause between us is so quiet, I sigh to at least break it. "I don't want to get into it. I think Armin'll tell you when you see him again."

Sasha makes a noise, "That bad?"

"Yeah,"

"Did someone get hurt?"

"Emotionally or physically?"

"Both,"

I sigh again. "Yeah."

"Do I at least like the person that got hurt?"

"One of them,"

"Was Thomas who got it physical?"

"Mmhm."

"Good." And then she changes the subject, "Connie sent me more cadaver selfies,"

I flop over and stare at the ceiling, a small, small smile tugging the corner of my mouth. I don't feel it reach my eyes. "He's gonna get caught and arrested. Or haunted by angry poltergeists."

Sasha laughs, but I can tell she isn't really happy. "He already _has_ been caught. He was kicked out of all workshops and labs for a whole week and is failing now,"

"Some guys never learn,"

"Tell me about it,"

And we just kind of banter like that the rest of the conversation. She tells me of some new recipes she learning, and even invites me to her dorm sometime to try them out. I agree, but I really hope it isn't any time soon. I don't feel up to leaving the house for a couple of days. Or years.

Sasha has class at one, so I let her go and just stare at the ceiling, thinking. I don't even realize how long I've been there until Mom knocks on my door at almost four-thirty.

"How was the movie?" She asks with a bright smile that I can't bring myself to dull.

"Didn't see it. We decided to do something else," I try to keep my tone indifferent and nonchalant, but I can't keep my eyes on her.

Mom's eyes sparkle and she leans in the doorway like some bubbly teenager. It's times like this that I remember how mentally young she is, how full of life. I wish I was like that. "Did you still have fun?"

"Yeah, it was great," I flash her a closed lip smile momentarily before looking back up at the ceiling to be judged by my jukebox lizard smiling coyly up there.

"That's good," And Mom leaves me alone with my thoughts. 

* * *

Dad's quiet when he comes home, and I want to take it as a good sign, but I really can't. I'm nervous that he knows about Thomas. I'm worried he's going to bring it up during dinner, but he doesn't really say much of anything. Something about work's bothering him, he keeps checking his phone and his watch. He leaves early for his office, saying something about a business trip he's leaving for in the morning and Clarice and I give each other sidelong glances. I'm off the hook. For now, at least.

I go to bed early, too. Stressing over the inevitable is fucking exhausting, and I'm starting to get a headache from it. I check my phone one last time, just to see if I have a message or something from Marco (I don't) before turning off the light and rolling onto my side so I'm facing the wall. I don't have any dreams, but I wake up feeling more tired than before. I stay in bed for a whole hour trying to fall back asleep before rolling out and getting into the shower, but even that does very little to wake me up entirely.

Cabin fever sets in about noon and I take the Lexus again, going a random route and just driving to get away. I find myself cruising downtown at some point, but nowhere to really go with it being a Sunday. I wish I had a fake I.D to go to a pub or something; a drink sounds really good right now. I go past a small tattoo parlor and immediately think of Marco again. I know I'm going to have to apologize soon, but I'm not really sure how. Or when. I turn into a nearly desolate parking lot and pull out my phone.

_**To: Marco** _

_hey you never told me which parlor you work at_

I stare at the message floating in my recently sent column before shutting off the screen and looking out over the lot. I count five cars, two of the same color (white), and three with at least one bumper sticker on them. One has a big dent on the right passenger-side door, and I wonder briefly what caused it when my phone dings.

Taking a deep breath to gather some strength, I unlock my phone and look at what he has to say.

_**From: Marco** _

_Doctor Jaeger's on 104th. But I'm not working today._

I just stare at my phone. No question? Not even that much of a delay in answering. "That's it?" I ask myself. Was he waiting by his phone for me to message him? Well, now I feel bad. My phone dings again in my hand.

_**From: Marco** _

_Were you thinking of getting something done?_

I type out a quick reply.

**_To: Marco_ **

_not really. just wondering i guess_

**_To: Marco_ **

_talk to you tomorrow?_

I can't really help asking. I just have to know if he's still mad at me. It's eating me alive.

_**From: Marco** _

_Of course :)_

His smiley actually helps my mood a little.

* * *

With Sunday being so slow, I find myself looking forward to school the next day against all odds. I'm twenty minutes early to Chemistry and doodle in the corner of my notebook to kill time. We're done with labs for the semester, thank god almighty, and the lecture isn't too boring. I actually understand a little of what the Professor is talking about.

Marco is already sitting down in our basically designated seats when I walk into Stats. He's wearing a black denim vest with small shoulder spikes and a white t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and smiles brightly at me when he meets my eye. I don't know whether or not to take it as something good or prepare for a real storm. I sit next to him and try to act normal as possible.

"You seem chipper," I point out gingerly, feeling like I'm treading on a landmine as I grab my notebook and set it on the desk next to my pen. I can't help the hyper-awareness that seizes me at being so close to Marco. I can smell his cologne again and it smells just as good as Friday night, if a little fainter. "Get a new cult member last night?" I tease.

Marco smirks, but it stretches back into a genuine smile, "Oh, that and more," he teases right back, "I got accepted into a piloting school." 

My breath catches in my throat, I fumble a little with my backpack, and can only stare at him with my mouth gaping wide open. "Really? That's great, man!" I give him a high-five that echos through the lecture hall and a fist bump (luckily for me, Marco doesn't give fist bumps like he has something to prove). So he really is going to be pilot. I need to step up my game.

"I know, right?" Marco practically squeals like a schoolgirl. His dark eyes are bright with excitement. He's almost glowing. "I got the letter this morning and about had a stroke,"

Well, at least something good turned out this weekend. I'm not going to let myself rain on his parade, but I really am happy for him. Though, from the way Marco keeps clenching and unclenching his fists and running his hands through his hair with that giant grin on his face, it wouldn't matter if I were happy or not. He's happy enough all by himself.

"So," I draw out the word, puckering my lips a little and twirling my pen in my fingers. I almost drop it on the floor, "celebratory lunch today, then?"

Marco's grin widens and he nods. "Absolutely,"

Watching him throughout the lecture is a spectacle, truly. He's composed enough to still take notes through the entirety of class, but there are brief moments, small pauses in his writing, barely noticeable and slight when he'll stop, still staring down at the page as a big grin stretches across his face slowly. Sometimes he'll bite his bottom lip to contain himself, other times he'll close his eyes and shake his head disbelievingly before getting back to work. Once he broke the pattern and caught me staring, but just smiled brighter at me, laughing oh so softly before shaking his head again and tuning back into the lecture.

God, why does he have to be so hot? I doubt he's even thinking about it right now, but come  _on._ It should be illegal for someone to be  _so hot_ while simultaneously being  _so cute_ at the  _same fucking time_. It isn't fair and my dick would agree. Luckily, the blushing in both my heads is under control by the time class is out.

"So where do you want to go?" Marco asks almost breathlessly as we walk across campus. It's a little chilly outside, the rain from a few days ago still clinging relentlessly to the grass in the cold and I hug myself to conserve heat. Marco, on the other hand, seems totally unaffected, practically skipping right next to me as tiny puffs of grey vapor push past his lips.

I honestly want to go get some drinks. I need a little pick-me-up right now, and I can easily sweep that under the rug of celebration.

Though the only alcohol I've ever had is champagne.

Oh well.

"How about a drink?" I suggest lightly, "Celebrate this like real men, yeah?" I try to quirk a half-smile for him, but it feels likes it's just pleading.

Marco slows momentarily before matching my speed again. He's looking out into the street, squinting at the cars that pass, when he says, "I'd still have to eat something first," He looks at me and shrugs slightly, "Hypoglycemia." He says simply.

I just nod along. "We could do that," I smile at him, "I'm very patient."

Marco's eyes narrow at me, "I thought you still had class today. You really want to show up late  _and_ buzzed?"

I shrug nonchalantly with my palms skyward, "Skipping is healthy every now and then. And we aren't doing anything in there anyway. No biggie."

Marco still looks a little unconvinced before his eyebrows raise in defeat and he just smiles. "Whatever. I'm game."

I just smirk up at him, but it fades a little, "Uh, you'd have to buy it, though."

Marco gives me this look that makes me feel even more embarrassed. It makes me feel like a child and I really hate it, but I refuse to back out now. "Look, you go get the liquor and I'll buy your lunch. We can even go to my place if you're worried about getting sick." 

"Gee, I'm a really good influence," Marco sighs, but still seems to be going along with it, "buying alcohol for minors."

"I'll be drinking it in the safety of my own home." I provide helpfully. "And I'll have a responsible adult with me."

Marco just looks at me and rolls his eyes, "My responsibility is debatable," he says with a rueful grin. "And you're quite unbelievable, Jean Kirchstein,"

"I like to keep people guessing," I deadpan haughtily.

We split apart at the crosswalk, Marco walking to the small liquor store around the corner, and me to some grab 'n go restaurant without a name. Marco was able to put the compact bottle of whiskey in his backpack without trouble, but I was a little nervous about riding his bike with a paper bag full of food next to my school notes. But riding the train with a bag of untouched food would feel weird.

"I promise to drive slow," Marco smiles sarcastically and kicks the engine to life, scaring the living daylights about right out of me.

We get home quick enough. Rush hour isn't in full force yet, and once Marco turns into the gated community, the road is basically empty. I manage to keep my balance as I eloquently slide off the side of the Ducati, but Marco just looks up at the house without taking off his helmet for a while.

"This place is...nice," He manages after a moment of staring.

I don't really know how to respond, so I don't, just gesture him to the front door with my hand. It's empty when we go inside and I lead the way to the kitchen, sensing the way Marco silently takes in the warm browns and beiges of the hall and cool navy of the kitchen. Sometimes I forget that my house is nice; it's just a house to me. "Do you want something to drink?" I ask to fill the silence and put his lunch on the table.

Marco puts the whiskey on the island in the middle of the kitchen. I'll give him this, he's good at hiding intimidation in new places. "Water would be great," He says with a close-lipped smile at me.

I just grab a bottled water from the fridge and a coke to mix with the whiskey.

"You can start if you want, I'm excited to see you wasted." Marco smirks and takes a bite of his hamburger after taking his insulin. "Just take it easy, kid. At least at first, please?"

I shoot Marco the most disgusted look I can muster, narrowing my eyes at him. " _Excuse me?_ " I enunciate, putting both hands on the island. I'm honestly quite offended. _Kid_? Where did  _that_ come from? "I'll have you know this isn't the first time I've had alcohol, Bodt," I make sure to spit his name.

"Really?" Marco challenges with both eyebrows raised. "'Cause you kind of remind me of Doogie Howser."

I squint at him, accepting his unspoken ultimatum. Suddenly so _feisty_. What the hell? "You know what? I'm gonna wait for you, just so I can show I can hold my jack,"

"You do that, Kirschstein," Marco says smugly, "And I promise to hold your hair back when you start puking," He just laughs and dodges when I fling a straw at him.

Marco finishes his food fast enough, and I almost forget that this is the most, and hardest, alcohol I've ever had, but I'm too prideful to admit that. Especially now that we've established our little bet. I grab two cups from the cupboard and crack open my cola, pouring half of it into each cup. I stir in the whiskey with a straw before raising my glass to Marco. "To piloting school," I grin.

"To piloting school," Marco agrees and we clink our cups together before completely chugging it.

Whiskey fucking burns. A lot. I cringe it the whole way down my esophagus and cough into my hand. My stomach feels pleasantly warm with it sitting there and I smile triumphantly at Marco.

"Don't get so high and mighty, Jean, this is deluded with soda," He chuckles.

"Aw, gettin' scared, are we?"

"Absolutely not,"

" _Right,_ "

Marco pours more whiskey and I grab another coke from the fridge, being a bit more frugal with it this time. We drink again, toasting to cutting school this time, and the whiskey burns more with less coke. I can feel the heat slowly rising to my cheeks and my mind getting a little foggier with each drink. A toast to loud music, motorcycles, and being gay as hell. It doesn't exactly feel _nice,_ but I can feel each and every one of my fears slowly becoming more and more irrelevant with each toast. We're both laughing at some point, though I don't know what about. Another toast to airplanes, one to Disney movies, and one for alcohol. The table top swirls a little beneath me and I'm suddenly on the floor, facing the ceiling. I think someone's calling me, but it's hard to hear past the rush of blood in my ears.

"Jean? Jean, can you hear me?" Marco's face is suddenly above me. He looks worried. What is there to really be worried about?

"What's wrong, man?" My tongue feels fat and clumsy in my mouth and my words don't sound quite right. "You're gonna get wrinkles if you keep doing that," I reach up to smooth the deep line between his brow, but can't reach him. 

Marco grabs my hand. Holy shit, he's strong. And really cute. Like, really cute. "Jean, you fell. Are you okay?"

"Never been better, baaaabe," I smile clumsily up at him.

"Do you need help up?"

"...maybe,"

Marco scoffs down at me lightly, grabbing both hands (seriously he has the prettiest hands ever) and hoisting me up. There's something wrong with the floor, I can't keep my balance, and I fall into him. He smells nice. "Come on, let's get you to the couch,"

"'kay," and I try to lift my feet to move, but I don't know where they went. Where did they go? "Have you seen my feet?" I ask, looking up at him with an eyebrow quirked.

"You still have them, Jean," Marco scoffs again and starts moving.

I'm on the couch. It feels nice and soft, and I pat the spot next to me for Marco to sit and he does. Yay. But the couch shifts, and I have to lean on his shoulder to stay upright.

Marco runs a hand through his hair. It's so pretty and looks really soft. "You're definitely a lightweight,"

I scrunch my eyebrows together, looking up at him in confusion. What does that mean? I can't remember. "Is that a good thing?"

Marco looks down at me before patting my hand on my knee, "For me, yeah,"

"Good."

I stare off into space then, rubbing absently at my knee with my index finger. Marco doesn't say anything for a long time and I look at his hand. He has a lot of freckles, all splattered over his skin like tiny dots of paint. I can paint. I can draw, too. I think I'm really good at it.

And I like freckles.

"You're really pretty," I mumble absently without looking at Marco.

I can feel his voice shake his shoulder a little. "Thank you, Jean,"

"No, like," I try to lift my head to look at him but it isn't working at the moment, so I just tilt my head up enough that I can see his face. "You're  _really_ pretty. Like, I would _kiss_ you you're so pretty,"

Marco just looks down at me with a soft smile, "Thank you, Jean." He repeats, speaking slow like I'm a child. I'm not a child.

"No, you don't get it, man." I shake me head and it makes me feel dizzy, "I  _want_ to kiss you. I...I wanted to kiss you at the movie theater and the other night, but I couldn't because I fucking messed everything up and I was worried that I was gonna fuck everything up with you and I didn't  _want_ to fuck everything up because I really like you," Well, there it is. It's out and I feel like shit. I roll my head forward so my forehead is resting in Marco's shirt. "I like you and I'm sorry I'm such a hot mess all the time," My throat feels tight, words brittle and hard to get out, and my eyes burn, "And I'm sorry I suck at math and I make fun of you for being a satanist all the time, I really don't care that you're a satanist, and...and I'm sorry for throwing up on you when we first met because you're really hot and nice all the time."

I don't know at what point I started crying, maybe I'm really not, like, my eyes are just watering, but I feel Marco wrap his arms around me. "It's okay, Jean," He croons softly and I can feel him laughing at me. "I don't mind your jokes and you didn't fuck anything up. I like you, too." He sits like that for a long time. I could fall asleep like that.

"...Marco, can I kiss you now?"

He moves really fast and suddenly, making me lose my balance, and I nearly fall off the couch. "What?"

"Can I kiss you? Please?" I whine like the baby I am.

"Jean," Marco sighs, "you're drunk. You're not thinking straight,"

"No I'm not thinking straight, I'm thinking very gay. Marco Bodt, would you let me kiss you?" I'm alert enough to know he thinks this is something I'm only doing in a drunken stupor, but it's really not. I've been wanting to do this forever. "I'm serious."

He just looks at me for a long time, eyes a little wide and lips quirked in a confused line before nodding slowly, "Yeah. You can kiss me,"

I smile hugely. "Really?" I ask to which he just nods. I'm so happy he said that I don't really know what to do at first. The smile fades. My whole body feels warm, but I'm frozen. I just look wide-eyed at Marco. "What do I do now?" I ask dumbly.

Marco smiles again and it's so pretty. I love it when he smiles. "Here," He leans toward me a little, tilting his head to one side, and cupping the side of my face in his hand. I close my eyes and his lips are on mine. They're soft and slow, fitting perfectly with mine. I let my jaw slacken and his tongue skates gently over my bottom lip, his septum ring pressing softly to the space of skin between my nose and my mouth. Holy hell, this feels awesome. I open my mouth just barely before grabbing Marco's lip with my teeth, nibbling softly at the piercing there, and let my tongue slip into his mouth. I really hope I don't seem too eager to lick his tonsils, but Marco tastes nice, like soda and something else. He has his own taste, and I like it.

I lean in closer, trailing both hands up his chest and tangling my fingers in the fabric of his vest, pulling him closer to me.

We break away momentarily to breathe before going at it again, faster this time. Marco's hands tangle in my hair, fingers scratching my scalp, and I suppress a moan as he pushes me up against the arm of the couch behind me. This feels too good to be real.

I am kissing Marco Bodt.

Marco bites down on my lip, sucking lightly before his tongue is in my mouth again, licking the roof teasingly and intermingling with my own. I like the slight metallic taste of his tongue piercing, the mild zing of metal in my mouth. My hands are on his collar now, keeping his head next to mine, and my jeans feel tight. I'm breathing heavily, my air mixing with Marco's in an unholy cocktail of drunkenness and absolute desperation to keep him close to me. And I'm drinking him in like he's the only fresh water in a desert for miles. Words leave me and all I can do is kiss, keep kissing like it's the last thing I'll ever do.

We pull apart again, both breathing heavily, with our foreheads put together. Marco's hands are cupping my face and it feels so good.

"Jean," Marco breathes. "Thank you,"

I just nod, unable to form real words. My heart is racing at a million miles, I could fly over the moon right now because I just kissed Marco Bodt, and he kissed me back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finishing this up, I realized that there is definitely going to be smut, and it is coming soon. ( ͡° ͜ ʖ ͡° ) I hope you all enjoyed reading as much I did writing!
> 
> shout out to Zombie_bnvnd for inspiring Marco's new name. He will be now be forever addressed as the Spiky Sinnamon roll
> 
> Likes and Comments greatly appreciated!


	6. Dead in the Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the smut chapter you've been waiting for

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so I've been working my ass off to get this chapter published before the school year starts up again. I've tried making it a long one without cramming, and I'm sad to say things are going to be losing steam for a little while now because I actually have to go to bed at night and have homework to do; I apologize in advance for that, but I promise this fic will never be dropped or forgotten. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy!

It's at night laying in my own bed with the covers tucked under my armpits, the window barely cracked open to let in a small breeze, and my whole body bathed in shadows that I succumb to the full intensity of the realization that Marco Bodt actually kissed me. And it was with the bitter taste of whiskey in his mouth no less. The memory of him sucking my lip, the piercing on his own gently scraping the sensitive skin by my chin and his hands memorizing each curve of my back over and over again runs through my head like a broken record that just so happens to be playing my favorite song.

I had lost track time, love not being the only thing I was drunk on, and soon it was time for him to leave. 

"Honestly, I didn't drink as much as I should have." Marco promises when I try to convince him he's too impaired to be driving. I believe him, but that doesn't change the fact that I don't want him to leave; I won't be able to see him again until tomorrow if that happens (sad face). "I'm not that big on alcohol, anyway. And I ate right before so there isn't that much in my system; I'm barely buzzed, Jean."

"But  _I'm_ not," I whine, resting my chin on the banister and glaring down at the living room, pouting my bottom lip out like I'm six years-old again. "I could have alcohol poisoning. And you're just gonna leave me here to pass out and die."

"You'd already be passed out if you had alcohol poisoning."

"...I could fall down the stairs and break my neck," I deadpan.

Marco slings one strap of his backpack over his shoulder and gives me a soft look. "Please don't," He croons and steps closer to me making me stand up straight and face him. He's only, like, an inch taller than me, but he still cranes his neck forward so his forehead looms just over mine. "For me?" asks Marco, his eyes piercing bright brown into mine. He definitely knows he's hot and he's using it to his goddamn advantage. 

I love it, but I fucking  _hate_ that it's working.

The slight pungent smell of whiskey still clings to his lips--his beautiful fucking lips--and I crinkle my nose. Whiskey's pretty gross and it burns, definitely not my favorite drink, but holy hell. This has been one of the best and worst days of my life. I close my eyes, mostly because it's so bright in here and a headache is slowly coming on, and Marco gives me another kiss, this one more tender than the last thirty or so we'd shared down on the couch.

"I have homework," Marco growls right in my ear and my knees turn right to caramel where I stand. His breath tickles my skin and I shudder with goosebumps. "But we can plan something when you get out of class tomorrow if you'd like." Marco kisses the skin behind my ear, humming a soft laugh when my breath hitches. "And you have to promise you'll make it to Art."

I groan and roll my head back, completely put out. "That's seriously the worst part of my day," I glare up at him, hoping my eyes are as effective on him as his are on me.

"All the more reason to look forward to seeing me at the end of it." Marco gives me a half-smile.

"What if I wake up with a massive hangover?"  glare up at him with

"And miss seeing me in Stats?"

I grumble again, pitching my head right into his chest. The fistfuls of his vest aren't enough for me anymore. I just want to go to bed. I want Marco to go to bed with me. 

"I think someone's a little tired," Marco chuckles and a hand runs softly through my hair. I would let him do that to me all day. "Maybe you should get some sleep."

I bury my face deeper into his chest, knowing that I can't fight him on this; he's really leaving. "Just a few more minutes," I plead as a last resort.

Marco chuckles deeply, darkly and his hands are suddenly on my back again. "How about a wager?" He purrs into my neck. 

My eyes go wide at the suddenly feeling of his lips tracing patterns in my neck, my jawline, and I gasp silently. "W-wager?" I stammer, walking backwards slowly as Marco leads me to my room. His hands stay on my hips, his lips on my neck until my back is flush against the door and he turns the knob with slow, smooth movements. My room is dark, the lights turned off and the curtains closed, but I can still see him right in front of me. I can still feel the memory his arms press into me when he pushes me down on the bed, straddling my hips and glancing curiously down at me. I lay on my back, unmoving, as a grin inches its way on Marco's lips, dimples cratering in his cheeks and making my heart throb.

"What if," Marco starts and I'm all ears despite the blood pounding behind them, "I leave you with a few...mementos. Something sweet to remember me by until tomorrow?" His head hangs over me, just out of my reach and softened in the dim light.

Oh, yes.  _Fuck_ yes. "Like...?" I careen my neck back in a way that's hopefully a lot sexier than it feels.

I spot Marco's tongue push just barely past his lips as he stares at my neck with glassy eyes that flick back up to me and he smirks. "A gift of sorts," he says simply, teasing me.

"Do I have to beg for it?" I scowl confusedly up at him.

"Abso _lute_ ly not," Marco grins again and plants one hand on either side of my head, leaning down on his elbows to give me a quick peck on the mouth before traveling south down the line of my jaw and the length of my neck. He pulls at the collar of my shirt, taking a liking to my collarbones and shoulders. Marco snorts softly at the high sound I make in my throat when he starts using his teeth just a few inches down from where my neck and shoulder meet. He nips at the tender skin, teeth grating playfully into the goosebumps populating my body and I actually groan.

It's over way too soon, and I find myself pouting my lip at him, when Marco plants one final, soft kiss into my probably bruising shoulder and sits back up. "Don't look so disappointed, Sugar." He laughs in a light voice. "I can't give you the grand finale without making you work for it first. That's bad business,"

"You stretched out my shirt," I frown and tug at my ruined collar.

Marco smiles indubitably and sits back on his heels, still pinning me to the mattress. "Fine," He simpers and strips off his black vest, holding it to my chest with both hands. He sits forward one last time, resting his forehead on mine. "Another memento then," He whispers.

Marco slips off me, and I just lay there and stare up at the ceiling. Holy shit. That was way hotter than it should have been.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Jean," Marco promises and opens the door to my room, light from the hallway streaming in one short, fat beam.

"Wait!" I bolt upright--a little too fast--and have to put my hands down on either side of myself to keep from falling over.

Marco turns around, silhouetted by the afternoon light behind him.

I get up to my closet and yank the first shirt I get my hands on right off the hanger. It's a black  _Pink Floyd_ shirt I haven't worn in at least six months; I don't even listen to _Pink Floyd_ , I just liked the shirt. Oh, well.

"A memento of my own," I brandish the shirt for Marco to take. "Since I can't give _you_ a hickey right now."

Marco takes the shirt, his hand brushing unnecessarily against mine. "All in due time, honey," He grins and I follow him to the front door. The Ducati is a lot louder than I remember, and I find myself laughing at the way I jump when Marco kicks the engine to life. He peels swiftly out of the driveway, my shirt folded neatly in his backpack, and engine ripping monstrously into the air. Even with his helmet on, the plexiglass face-guard hiding his features, I catch a glimpse of a crooked smile  from him just before he rounds the corner and is gone from my sight. The Ducati still roars cacophonously, and I listen until it drifts away, moulding in with the other sounds of traffic before melting away completely.

I stand outside for a moment longer, leaning in the doorway and taking a deep breath. This is one of the best and worst days of my life. Best because I think I just solidified my relationship with Marco and from all the little tokens he's given me, maybe he wasn't just messing around for my benefit. It was the worst day because our little makeup session was completely drunk on my half, and I was practically begging him for more. I really need to get my head in the game just to keep from looking like a total loser.

The house feels a whole lot darker without him here, and I flick on a few lights before cleaning up the mess of empty pop cans and the small bottle of whiskey. There's still a chuggable amount left at the bottom of the glass, but I don't want it. Like I said before: whiskey's nasty as hell. So I chuck the bottle with the rest of the cans in the recycle bin out in the garage, feeling the mugginess creep back into my senses with each passing minute. Not wanting to make my family have to deal with me all grumpy and hungover _and_ sleep deprived, I drink a tall glass of water before getting in the shower.

If nothing else, the scalding water relaxes me a little. My shoulders hunch tiredly, and my eyes droop before I even finish washing my hair, and walking out of the bathroom, my bed is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

An old t-shirt and boxers suffices as sleepwear. I grab Marco's vest from its place at the foot of my bed, holding it close to my face and reveling in the lingering scent of Marco still clinging to it. I'm asleep in minutes, head pillowed on drunkenness and the sweetest odor invading my dreams.

I wake up disoriented with a mild pounding behind my ears. Groaning sleepily, I roll right on top of one of the shoulder spikes of Marco's vest, hissing when it pokes me in the sternum. Well, I'm awake now, unwillingly so, and a little pissed off. I don't know what time it is--or what day for that matter--and slip the black denim under one of my pillows, grabbing my phone from its place on the nightstand.

My screen is bright as balls, insinuating tiny explosions behind my eyelids and an aching sting in my corneas. It's fucking five-thirty in the afternoon; I've been passed out in bed for almost four hours.

I groan again, clicking off my screen and staring at the ceiling in the dark. No doubt Mom  _and_ Reese are home now and they're going to come up sooner or later to check on me. The world swims dizzyingly when I sit up, my stomach doing flip-flops. I sway where I stand, catching up my equilibrium before padding across my room and opening the door to the orange light of late afternoon. I drowsily make it downstairs, gripping relentlessly to the banister to keep from tipping over and somehow make it to the kitchen to the sound of Mom chattering animatedly on the phone with one of her friends. She gives me a small wave before going back to her conversation.

I press the button to turn on the coffeemaker, putting a few spoonfuls of black grounds in the filter and grabbing some milk and creamer from the fridge. Mom doesn't lower her voice, pacing back and forth through the kitchen, tugging anxiously at the silver pendant around her neck. 

"Did anyone see his face?" She asks. There's a pause and she prattles off again. "Well, I wasn't home then, but Brenda said she could hear it through the whole neighborhood."

My ears perk up at that, and I listen intently, sipping minimally at my scalding coffee.

"I don't know  _why_ anyone would want a bike that loud," Mom says hastily and I smirk into my mug, leaning into the counter and not looking her way. "They're a hassle for everyone around them, and I bet that boy riding it was a convicted felon. It's little punks like that who have to ruin a nice day for everyone." She frowns distastefully and I can just imagine the cheeky grin on Marco's face knowing he'd managed to piss off the local crones.

I pull out my phone and shoot him a text.

**_To: Marco_ **

_congrats! you managed to scare the neighborhood biddies with your bike_

Marco's response isn't immediate, but my phone jingles before Mom's finished with her little rant.

**_From: Marco_ **

_My mission was a success. I hope to scare all the old biddies and their husbands back to the hellscape from whence they crawled._

I smirk at that.

**_To:_ _Marco_**

_well good job. my moms dubbed you as a probable felon_ _  
_

Again, there's a slight delay in his response and I wonder briefly if he's at work.

_**From: Marco** _

_Even better ;)_

God, I love it when he uses a wink-y face. It's basically dirty talk.

I go back to my room and work on some Chemistry homework. Or, at least I try to. My head's pounding and it makes it hard to focus on much of anything. Sleeping is my best option for right now and it isn't that hard to do. I'm not hungry, food sounds nauseating really, and the days practically over, anyway.

Clarice doesn't bother me, one of her friends is over or something, and I fall asleep again by seven o' clock. 

And I'm awake again somewhere around midnight with the frank realization that Marco Bodt actually kissed me. The smile on my face never fades, the sheets wrinkling where my hands tangle in them excitedly, and I make a totally masculine sound in my throat just thinking about it.

Marco _kissed_ me.

I roll over, burying my face in my pillow because I feel like I'm going to scream from the sudden rush of butterflies. I remember Marco's vest and pull it out again, hugging it to me. His smell is long since gone, but the fraying and the stitches are still there, and they still belong to Marco.

I take another shower in the morning, not fully recovered from my minor headache, and gape at the deep purple spot just above my right collarbone. It's freaking  _huge_ and so not going to be covered with any amount of makeup. The skin around my newly brandished hickey is deep green and tender as fuck when I poke it. I take a picture with my phone and send it to Marco.

I toss my phone on my bed and get dressed, making sure to get a shirt that covers the entirety of his hickey without looking too conspicuous. The only thing I can come up with is the forest green sweat shirt from Lagoon and I crack a smile at the way it fits.

It's cold enough that I can see my breath clouding in front of me when I get on campus, and I follow the small crowd of students scurrying inside to get warm again. The day is a warm grey, not threatening rain, but lacking color as all the leaves are dying and trees going dormant in preparation for winter. Even just a few days before the beginning of October and the weather's all out of whack. But, hey, pumpkin spice lattes'll be in season, too, so I'm not complaining.

I saunter into Stats, looking expectantly for Marco, when I hear him choking back laughter to my left. His eyes are already watering when he sees me, smile tight, and wearing his favorite sweatshirt. "This is too good," I he cackles and we walk to our seats, "We're already matching. But I'll take a wild guess why you're wearing _your_ shirt."

My cheeks turn pink and I hide my face by grabbing my notebook from my bag. "You gave me a really good bruising," I mumble. "You could see it through my other shirts."

Marco seems more than pleased at this information and he grins impishly. "Can I see it?" He asks in a low voice. There's something mischievous in his eyes that I don't trust. It reminds me of something straight out of a slasher movie or something.

I make an offensive noise and hold my collar against my throat. "No," I snarl quietly, shifting my eyes around for any prying ears. "Not with so many people around."

Marco raises his eyebrows with half-lidded eyes before glancing around the admittedly scantily populated room. His eyes come back to me and he gives me a look. "Really?"

"Your attitude is unappreciated," I snip, still holding my collar protectively.

"Is it that bad?"

"I sent you a picture this morning," I jab defensively, glowering over at him.

Marco squints, rolling his jaw before pulling out his phone and bringing up the message. I look away, but can tell the exact moment when he finds the picture from the way he sucks in a breath to keep from laughing out loud. He doesn't do a very good job at hiding his amusement. "Oh, my  _god_!" He squeaks into his fist.

I slouch in my seat, heat rising to my cheeks and ears, and scowl acidly at the graining in my desk.

Marco grins, but I refuse to look at him. "Oh, my god. Jean, this is great," He makes a happy sound in his throat and I really feel like strangling him for laughing at me. " _Oh,_ today's gonna be  _fun._ I've got big plans for this."

I roll my eyes up at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Something crawls up my spine and I repress a the onslaught of chills threatening to roll up my spine from the devilish grin Marco plants me with. I hate the way he can twist his naturally sweet face into something so goddamn sinister, but make it so goddamn _attractive._ I'm no match for his Cheshire cat tactics leading me head first into wonderland; though, I suppose I can't call it leading if I'm going in willingly. I cross my ankles and steeple my fingers to keep from fidgeting under his gaze, trying for casual and feeling like an utter failure. 

Marco doesn't have to say a word to get his point across, just leering casually at me with one eye, smiling smugly, and goes back to his notes like absolutely nothing happened. He ignores my bitter attempts to get his attention again, choking on a laugh when I get called on by the professor and I don't know the answer because Marco is just a  _little_ more important right now, but he never makes eye-contact again until the bell for class to get out shrieks from somewhere in the hall and he flips his notebook shut. But I've a slight inkling what he was implying by then.

"Marco, I swear to god, if you send me smutty pictures during class I will break your fucking neck." I threaten once we're clear of the lecture hall heading straight for the dining hall on the other side of campus, the sky shifting to a dull grey. No such consolation for me at the impish glint still in Marco's eye, even if his face  _is_ stripped of all joking from before. "What if someone sees and thinks I'm looking at porn? I may be a slob, but I do have my standards."

I only get a measly, half-hearted shrug in reply, "If someone sees you, tell 'em it's homemade." He gives me a tight-lipped smile and another shrug as he tries to contain a bout of laughter. "Nothing warms the heart like a gift made from scratch." Marco's face blotches vermillion and he curls in his lips in a stupid, hopeless bid to stop giggling, but he  _does_ giggle and Jesus Christ it's cute as hell, even if he's a piece of shit. My favorite dimples crater his cheeks like something straight out of a Disney movie and a swarm of butterflies invades my stomach despite myself. Man, I really can't wait to staring working on animation, 'cause Marco would definitely be the first prince I'd create.

I snatch his Pepsi, chugging a large amount in spite of my dire hatred for the ungodly concoction just to get on his nerves. If I can't be hot, I can at least be annoying as hell. Though, I'm not entirely sure if it's really worth it when an onslaught of belching hinders me, and I get the disgusting taste in my mouth a second time. Marco observes my sudden paroxysm with a mildly incredulous expression and I just glare back with a testy sneer.

"Well, _someone_ forgot his daily dose of _Preparation H_ ," Marco scoffs when he sits down. "Asshole."

"Specially reserved just for you," I smile sourly at him, pursing my lips. "Fucknuts,"

Marco just rolls his eyes at me, taking a small sip of his Pepsi, "You know, sass isn't helping your case." His coffee bean eyes flash wickedly at me, but I'm too invested in my whiny baby defiance to let it faze me. "Now I'm just thinking up more and more smutty scenarios to send you during Art, some of them dirty enough to make Sigmund Freud look like a saint." He grins, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively and I crinkle my nose.

"Who'd've thought you were a freak," I mutter tastelessly, slouching deep in my seat and tearing off bite-sized bits of my sandwich to get the bad taste from my mouth. Well, looks like my judgement skills haven't improved at all, surprise surprise. Who knows, maybe next I'll buy a car from a drug lord and his son.

Marco's eyes screw up and he rests his chin on both hands, elbows placed gingerly on the table as he smiles. "But I'm a hot freak," he states matter-of-factly.

I just sigh and throw my head back, staring at the ceiling, knowing he's totally right. "Yeah," I keep my arms folded in front of me, resting the base of my head on the back of the chair, staring long enough at the fluorescents for blue and green impressions to fade into the back of my eyelids and close my eyes. I sigh again, and let the mild commotion of the lunchroom leak into my peripheral and invade my thoughts. When I open my eyes again and look up, Marco's staring at me with a blank expression. "What?" I ask softly.

"What are you thinking?" Marco asks curiously, tilting his head to the side inquisitively. A gentle smile curls at his lips softly, the impression of his left, slightly deeper dimple ghosting the center of his cheek. There's a freckle at the edge of it, mere millimeters from the indentation in his face, much lighter than the other surrounding it. It's one of my favorite freckles.

I'm so caught up in catching all the perfect imperfections of Marco's face I forget he asked me a question for a moment. Blinking the spots from my eyes, I sit forward. "Uhh," I articulate, "Nothing, I guess. Just thinking."

"You're pretty when you do that," Marco croons and moves his chin to rest on just one hand, placing the other flat on the table, nail tracing the grain absently as he stares at me with the same soft eyes as before.

I blink at him, only a little taken aback, and feel color slowly flood my cheeks. "...Thanks."

The smile deepens, Marco's eyes getting all sparkly. He doesn't say anything, just stares at me, when the bell finally rings. 

I lunge out of my seat clumsily, struggling with my backpack and my feet and everything else that can be struggled with. "I-I'll see you after class then, Mar-" My stupid stumbling dies on my lips, cut off by Marco's warm hands slapping on either side of my face and his lips pressing softly into mine. He has the lingering taste of Pepsi, and I probably would have pushed away had it been anyone else kissing all out of the blue with gross soda-mouth like that, but I find myself gaining a tolerance to the sweet taste when it's on Marco. 

He pulls away just as fast as he kissed me and a smirk scrunches his face at my slightly bewildered expression, hands still holding my face. "See you later, Sugar," He winks and gathers his bearings, walking away, melting in perfectly with the other students going to their classes.

* * *

I stumble to Art in a daze, not really sure what just happened. I hardly register how late I actually am until I see Professor Zoe and a large chunk of the classroom staring at me standing in the doorway like I grew right out of the ground, scurrying to my seat with a hot face. My easel does a good job of hiding my face, and I keep my eyes on the paint-spottled linoleum for a good seven minutes until the fire under my skin is smothered and Zoe is finished with their short speech.

"For anyone it might concern," They begin, pushing their clunky hipster glasses up the bridge of their nose with the knuckle of their middle finger, "Your projects are to be turned into me by next Friday at two p.m or I will not take it." A collective gasp sounds behind me and I silently praise the universe I had already finished Saturday. This whole semester's flown by, Halloween's only in a few weeks. "If you have conflicts in your schedule, you may turn it in early or talk to me after class today and  _maybe_ we can figure something out which favors both of us." Professor Zoe does a small bow, pursing their lips once. "Other than that, the rest of the class period is yours."

I stay in my seat, a little scared to look at my phone in case Marco remembers the message he's promised, when Krista leans over to me. "Did you already turn in your painting?" She asks curiously and I notice the portrait of the hawkish girl with straight dark hair she's working on.

Shrugging, I shake my head at Krista. "No," I say. "I took it home at the beginning of the semester and have been working on it there." I gesture to her painting with my chin. "How've you gotten so far?"

Krista follows my gaze to her work, setting her brush down on the small rack under easel and stretching her arms out in front of her. "Oh," she sighs, "I have a lot of free time after class so I usually stay here for a few hours just working on homework or something." Krista flashes me with a half smile that crinkles her eyes, "And working as a TA for the professor helps a lot, I guess." She shrugs.

"What do you even do for an art teacher?" I ask dubiously.

Krista shrugs again. "Well, mostly I just help them clean art supplies right now, but come the end of the quarter I'm gonna be grading some of the art projects turned in." She gives me a stressed look, sighing greatly. "I'm not even going to be able to  _see_ my girlfriend until next term because of how busy that gets."

I manage a sympathetic look, my mind flashing to Marco and whatever the hell he has planned for me at the end of class today. "I'm sorry," I console awkwardly. I've never been one to pull the sympathy card, but I can afford to make one small exception. I can get clingy as fuck, so understand the small toll it takes when you can't be with the one person you want to.

Krista smiles, if a little wistful, and shakes her head, "Don't be," she waves me off, "I want to do it. Ymir's already working overtime to pay for a birthday present for me and I just want to return the favor."

The rest of the class is mostly me checking my phone for surprise messages from Marco and making smalltalk with Krista. And by smalltalk, I mean giving short, one word answers to her simple, far-in-between questions as she continues working on her painting. I one point I stare at the wood plank, blinking past the sting in my eyes from the heady odor of vinegar still in the air, as Krista ever-so-gently, and with a hand steady enough to make me insanely jealous, dabs small freckles of varying size and shadow all across the nose and cheeks of the girl in her portrait. Even with the speckles to minus a few years from the portraits age, the girl has a sinister look to her that I'm not sure was intended by Krista when she painted her. I don't say anything about it, just in case it wasn't.

The bell trills, echoing eerily through the hall outside the circular art room, but I remain in my seat for a few extra seconds out of pure nervousness for what to expect from Marco. He's always been a bit of a spectacle, and even now I don't know what to predict as I pace a few feet in either direction waiting for him to roar up on the Ducati.

Is he totally vanilla? Does he have a bondage kink? Oh, God, is he a submissive? Questions rapid-fire through my head at a million miles an hour, one after another until I'm chewing at my thumbnail anxiously. I'm not into that kind of stuff and gag-balls freak me the fuck out. There is  _no_ way I'm participating in that kind of shit.

I've had sex a whopping total of one time, and I doubt it really could be considered sex by most people. Am I really ready to be strapped to Marco's bed and gagged? Is that really something to be considered erotic? The thought makes my hands shake, the color drain from my face, and a nervous pit gape in my stomach. A cold sweat breaks out over my neck as I hear the telltale thundering engine of Marco's chrome Ducati, and he rolls right up to the curb in matter of minutes.

"Hey, hot stuff," Marco greets with a half-grin after cutting the engine and flipping the dark plastic visor up on his helmet. He's swapped his crimson sweatshirt for a black leather riding jacket with shoulder pads and a black long sleeved shirt.

I swallow the nervous lump in my throat, trading it for a confident smile as I walk up to him. "H-hey," I gasp, knotting my hand in the shoulder strap of my backpack. 

Marco takes my smile in stride, sliding his own bag into his lap and unzipping the largest pocket, still straddling his bike. He pulls out another helmet, the same brand as the one he's wearing, but colored white and offers it to me. "Safety first," He shrugs.

I take the helmet with surprisingly steady hands, holding it by the rim and looking at my warped reflection in the shiny plastic. "Cool," I breathe and give him sly grin. "What's with the jacket?" I gesture with my chin.

"Another thing," Marco shrugs fluidly out of the leather and offers that to me with one finger hooked under the collar. God, if I thought he looked good in the jacket, his form-fitting Under Armor is a whole new ball game, stretched perfectly over his broad shoulders, wrapping nice and snug around his torso. "You're too pretty to get your face fucked up in a car accident."

I scowl at him, but don't say anything as I slip my arms in the the leather sleeves. Marco's jacket is way too big for me, the shoulder pads hanging at least an inch from my shoulders and the sleeves stretching past my palms. It smells like Marco, and really fucking warm to top it off. Marco helps with the helmet straps, his fingers grazing the skin of my neck way too many times than necessary, and I have the chills when he finally starts his bike up again. I'm not sure if the shaking in my legs is from the engine roaring underneath me, or just plain old nerves, but my grip on Marco tightens every time we lurch forward, zipping illegally between car lanes, and rounding corners too fast to be safe. I'm grateful I'm starting to get a feel for how motorcycle riding works, though.

We make it to Marco's too soon, streaking past the oncoming traffic of rush-hour just in time, and the shaking in my legs doesn't stop even with the engine dead. I remain perched on my little spot above the rear tire as Marco clips off his helmet and shakes out his dark hair, sliding down the kickstand. I have to rest my hands on his seat to keep from falling over, but my legs still won't move.

"Are you coming?" Marco asks, his helmet stashed in the crook of his arm, eyebrow raised. He smiles when I raise the visor of my helmet.

"I..." I pant, feeling the blood rush straight to my ears. "My legs won't  _move_ ,"

The smile fades only just barely from Marco's lips before stretching over them again, bigger and brighter than ever. "Are you serious?" He chuckles. His nose scrunches up in a way that's too cute to belong to someone making fun of me.

"Hey!" I snap and try to move my leg, but it's completely numb and the movement feels off. "Don't laugh at me!"

"That shit's  _adorable_ _!"_

"Marco!"

He raises his hands placatingly, looping his helmet on one of the handles of his bike and still fighting that shit-eating grin. "Alright, alright," He sighs, "I'll help you down," He wraps his right arm across my back, resting his hand on the other side of my ribs and hoists me up. "Whiny baby."

I snake my left arm over his shoulder, seething, "That's _mi_ _ster_  whiny baby to you,"

Marco pulls me off the Ducati, a mischievous glint in his eye that I don't trust one bit, and before I know it, the ground so close to my feet a moment ago is gone and he scoops me up in both arms, cradling me to his chest. "Yes, mister whiny baby," He croons all too affectionately, nuzzling his nose into my neck past the white helmet I'm still wearing with a light smile tugging the corners of his mouth.

"Put me down!" I squawk, arms flailing, legs kicking (I still can't feel them), hands latched onto Marco's shirt in a mega death-grip. " _Put me down!_ " The front door is just barely cracked open and Marco steps inside, crushing me to his chest and rendering any attempt to get away from him useless. He sidesteps down the stairs, angling his body so I don't get my shoulder clipped on the door hinge, laughing lightly before dumping me right on his sofa with a slight hiss of air from the cushions.

"Stay," Marco orders. "I'm getting my helmet from outside." He gives me serious look before twisting on his heel and stomping back upstairs. 

I do as he says, sitting up slowly and struggling with the straps under my neck before tossing the helmet and leather jacket to the other couch. I try rubbing some life back into my legs again, which actually works some, and have feeling all the way to my ankles when Marco trudges back into the living room, keys jingling in his pocket and black helmet hanging from bent fingers. 

Marco smiles lightly. "Feeling better?" He tosses his helmet on the couch next to mine.

I nod.

He sits next to me, moving my stretched out legs to rest on his thighs. "Good," He stares down at my legs, at my hands on my knees, and twiddles with the fabric of my jeans for a moment. His hands start at my ankles, moving slow until they're at mid-calf before his fingers walk up my legs and rest flat on my own hands. Marco's thumbs rub soft circles into my skin and his eyes slowly slide over every part of me before resting on my gaze, intense and burning coffee bean brown every second. He takes my hands in his, squeezing gently before lifting them to his lips and pressing soft kisses into my palms. My skin already feels hypersensitive, and each kiss sends a heady current of electricity right through my arm and down my spine, settling in the small of my back.

Marco keeps my hands on his face with one hand, pulling me to him to rest on his lap with the other. His smell envelopes me and I breathe deep, closing my eyes and leaning my head forward to rest on his forehead, relishing in the chill I get from his nose tracing my skin just before his lips are on mine. He's patient, biding his time as his hands wrap around my torso, bringing me even closer, fingers pressed gently into my back, and I mould into him. Marco's breathing is even as his lips trail away from mine, kissing a tedious trail from my mouth to my jaw and down the length of my neck to my collarbone. My sweatshirt rides up with his hands caressing every bit of my back as his lips sign my skin, leaving a mark identical to the one on my other side. He doesn't stop, even when my legs wind around his waist;  _especially_ when my legs wind around his waist.

I bite back a groan, swallowing it deep in my chest and resting my head on Marco's shoulder when his fingers crook, nails biting into my skin as he scrapes them down to my hips. His tongue is warm on my skin, the sting in my back forgotten for the delicate, warm massage migrating up my neck. My stomach quivers slightly at the feeling, a soft burning starting in my lower gut, and I return the favor with faster movements. My lips are more desperate, teeth barely waiting before scraping and nipping the soft spot of Marco's ear.

Marco's the one to groan first, the single ring at the top of his ear caught between my lips, and the fire in my gut burns brighter at the beautiful sound.

His movements are faster then, hands clumsier than before, but still a helluva lot steadier than mine. Marco's damn shirt is in the way of what I really want; damn Under Armor, I fucking hate this shit. It's too fucking tight. Marco gives me a helping hand, almost elbowing me in the face before tossing his shirt to the side. We're back at it again, pawing at each other like hungry dogs and Marco's skin is smooth and blazing hot under my hands. His breathing is heavier, mouth desperate on mine; I think he has a thing for backs as that's where his hands linger the most, fingers oddly still gentle as he memorizes every part of me all over again.

"Mm," I pant against Marco's skin, holding his bare chest to me to keep from losing my balance and falling over the couch (not that I doubt he would stop if I did). My  legs are cramping, but I don't want this to end. "M-Marco..." My fingers tangle in his dark hair, keeping his head next to mine.

"I know," Marco's voice is deep and ragged and sexy as ever. "I know, Jean, hold on." I love the sound he makes in my ear.

Marco tilts me forward and stands, somehow keeping his balance even with the extra weight. His hand is strong on my thigh, keeping me in place perched on his hips and he continues on me with each step, teeth nipping my shoulders, fingers scratching my back. It's all I can do to not turn to goo right there.

My heart pounds the closer we get to Marco's bedroom. At some point we halt and I think he's too tired to carry me, but he just grabs my sweatshirt by the waistline and tears it over my head, leaning heavily against the yellow wall. He slams one more time in the threshold, slapping both hands in the doorframe to keep from falling over, me clinging to his waist and neck like my life depends on it, and Marco takes a few more steps before he tips over sideways on his bed. "Jean," He pants and I want him to get on top of me, pin me to the mattress, but he doesn't. "I gotta tell you something,"

I kiss his face, keeping close and breathing hard. "As long as you're STD-free, I don't care what it is,"

"Jean," Marco grabs my hands in his, looking at me with serious eyes. His cheeks are flushed the most beautiful red I have ever seen and I want to keep kissing them, but I control myself.

"What?" I hope he doesn't want to stop. I mean, I will, for him, but I'll definitely have take care of the tightness in my pants on my own if that's the case.

Marco hesitates, gaining back his breath and for a moment, his eyes searching mine for something and I think the blush deepens. "...I've never had sex before." The searching continues and I wonder if he thinks I'm going to judge him for it. That's cute. "I have no idea what I'm doing."

I sigh, a relieved smile stretching my lips and I flip him over on his back, pinning his wrists up over his head and kissing his lips. "I can't help with that if you want?" I growl softly against his mouth.

Marco's lips turn up from under mine and I feel his hot breath when he laughs. "Yes, please." 

Oh, my god say that again. I let his wrists go, climbing on the bed and straddling him on either side. I can feel the pressure in his pants, but I just grin teasingly down at him. His chest is the same color as his cheeks, complete with his signature of freckles dotting his skin, and I kiss a straight line from naval up to his sternum, straying left or right occasionally to get a nice peck on the tiny discolorations when I see them. I stop briefly, wetting my lips as Marco's back arches and he moans again; it's quickly becoming my favorite sound, his hands tangling in my hair becoming my favorite feeling. My hands fiddle with his belt, unbuckling it and tearing it away from the button of his jeans. I keep my lips at his neck and soon his hands fall from my hair, tracing down my neck and chest until they steadily unzip my jeans, Marco's eyes burning right into me every second.

He has a tattoo on his right hip, a pocket-shaped emblem with a simple profile of a blue-green unicorn at it's center. Small, red roses encircle the emblem, tangling with thorny branches and vines, on small bloom reaching crookedly up to his hipbone where it lays proudly above the rest.

God, I'm so ready for this. I've been wanting this since we first met, and now I'm finally getting it. My pants are soaked with pre-cum, and I'm getting harder by the second, the fire in my gut pulsing brighter. I look at Marco, wanting so bad to keep at him and fuck his brains out right there, but I have to ask: "Top or bottom?"

He grins with kiss-swollen lips, breathing stilted and hair tousled beautifully before me, "Whichever's easier," He breathes lightly.

Bottom it is. Fuck yes. "Okay," I look away from him, biting my lip, "You have lube, right?" 

"T-there's lotion on the nightstand," Marco says quickly, his breath hitching and his head pressed hard into the mattress. Jesus, if just palming is getting him this hot I can't imagine him in the post-coital daze. He's so fucking beautiful, too.

I grab the bottle, thankful it's only mildly scented, and pop it open. My hand immediately smells faintly of roses when I squirt some on my fingers and I can't help the smirk on my face as I look down at my beautiful Marco panting right below me. He responds with a sly smile of his own when I look back at him, pulling his legs up to rest his feet on the edge of the bed, giving me access to his full erection. God, he looks so good with his hair all mussed and cheeks that glorious vermillion.

I start with just my pinkie, moving slow and gentle, just barely crooking it forward at getting the OK from Marco, whose back arches again, mouth opening just barely at the feeling. "This is new," he gasps slightly and relaxes back into it.

"You okay?"

"Mmhm,"

But I still take it slow, rotating my pinky a little before starting on my ring finger, pushing it in up to the second knuckle.

Marco's reaction is even better than the last. His hands tangle in his bed cover, muscles going taught as he releases his loudest, prettiest groan yet, squeezing his eyes shut. "C-Christ, Jean," His voice tremors slightly and he licks his lips. "F-fuck  _me_ ," he swears up at the ceiling.

"That's the plan," The pressure in my gut is building to the point it's starting to hurt. I know he's not going to be able to handle all of me this soon, I don't want to risk him getting hurt. The fingers of my other hand trace circles into his inner thigh, migrating slowly towards his dick, slick with pre-cum, and giving one smooth pump. 

Marco writhes under me, biting his knuckle to silence the sudden noise bubbling in his throat. His head crams into his mattress again, a soft choke escaping him when I pump again. 

I smirk at him, liking the vulnerability and novelty of his reactions. "You _can_ scream, you know," and I make two swift motions, crooking the fingers in him stiffly just to get the sound out of him. I can tell he's close, his breathing spiking and his legs wrapping around me, muscles taught. I keep my pace steady, loving every answer from Marco.

"J-Jean," His voice shakes and he shivers once, "I'm--" I pump again, rubbing my thumb teasingly over his slit, and Marco's hips buck into my hand, legs tightening around me. "I--" One more should do it. His breathing stilts again and he bites hard on his lip, choking again on the moan that I know so desperately wants to escape. I keep pumping, gaining speed slowly until his breathing is in time with each pump and he moans enticingly, shuddering deep into the mattress. Marco comes into my hand, chest quivering, and a hiss escaping his lips that sounds almost like my name.

I take the opportunity to work on myself, puffing softly with my already slick hand, but Marco grabs me with shaking hands, pulling me onto the bed with one swift movement.

"Marc-woh!" I press into his pillows, fingers tangling anxiously into the comforter as he kisses down my abdomen, leaving a slight trail of saliva in his wake. I bite my lip when he licks the length of my dick, the piercing on his tongue sending bolts of electricity through my body. His lips are on me, hand gripping tight on my thighs and I feel like I'm going to explode right there with that stupid stud rubbing up and down with his warm tongue. My head presses hard into the pillow, toes curling, and I clench my teeth. " _Je--_ " Oh, God no. Not the French. I chew my lip, but Marco feels so good on me, moving up and down slowly. There's no way he's never done this before. That or the stupid silver ball on his tongue is really good compensation. And it's really good at weeding my roots out of me, " _J-je t'aime, Marco,_ " 

I don't think he can understand me through the garbled words, and I bite my knuckle to swallow back the low string of French cursing just as he goes a little deeper. Fuck, the pressure in my abdomen builds again, almost painfully so. I'm so  _fucking_ close. 

Marco swipes his tongue over the slit once, twice, and I can feel his trouble-maker stare as he goes deep one more time. He totally swallows, keeping his tongue moving as I finally come; moaning deep, every muscle in my body going rigid before finally sinking back down into the stiff pillow. A shuddering breath leaves me and my eyes flutter closed.

Holy shit. That was hot.

Marco maneuvers himself to lay down next to me; the brilliant color still strong on his face, but fading fast. I lean in, kissing the warm skin before the brilliance is gone. Marco smiles and I kiss the crinkled skin at the corner of his eyes and the bridge of his nose before finally getting to his lips. He tastes of salt and sweat and his lips curls sweetly against my mouth. Marco makes a soft growling sound in the back of his throat, nipping playfully at my bottom lip.

Somehow we make it under the sanctity of his blankets, back in our underwear because apparently naked cuddling makes him uncomfortable; whatever, he's warm. I don't care as long as he's happy. And Marco's the self-proclaimed big spoon in this establishment, nuzzling the back of my neck with with his nose, making the same growling sound in his throat. 

The thing about sex is it conks me out, and with Marco's warmth enveloping me, his purring has my eyes drooping. But I still catch the gentle rasp of his voice through the clouding in my mind.

" _Je t'aime aussi, Jean_."

* * *

The left side of the bed is empty by time I wake up, but the pillow still clings to an ounce of warmth. Not even ten seconds of registering that Marco's gone does the thick smell of coffee waft into the room, through my blanket cocoon and into my nostrils. And it smells nice.

My muscles are tight when I sit up, and I get a bad case of goosebumps. It momentarily crosses my mind to be a piece of shit and pull off Marco's comforter and carry it around the house, but I spot his red sweatshirt discarded on the floor by the bed and opt for that instead.

Marco and Eren's granny house only has one kitchen upstairs and a laundry room downstairs. I don't know where Eren is, but it isn't here; the only person when I walk into the kitchen is Marco slouched in front of the stove, pushing around a pan of scrambled eggs, the tiny coffeemaker brewing silently on the cramped little counter on his left. His hair's disheveled, lips set in a neutral line, but Marco's eyes lose the sleepy veil on them and he smiles brightly when he spots me hanging in the archway.

"Coffee should be done in a few minutes," He hands me a plate with a small mound of eggs, a few strips of bacon, and a fork, pecking me chastely on the cheek before I sit down.

It's five-thirty in the evening and Marco's making breakfast food in my _Pink Floyd_  t-shirt and boxers, and I couldn't be happier.

"Thanks," I say graciously, scooping some salsa on my eggs. "Smells nice,"

Marco sets his plate right of me, sitting down with a kind smile. I notice the black zipper bag fit snugly between the coffeemaker and a quaint little turntable crammed with ladles and spatulas, briefly wondering how long he's been awake. 

Marco follows my gaze and reads my mind. "I've only been up for half an hour," He says through a mouthful of bacon, "You were sleeping pretty soundly and I didn't want to wake you." His eyes are kind, milder than I've ever seen them, but a line, barely noticeable, creases right between his brows. I don't mention it; he  _did_ say he'd never done anything like that before and is probably trying to wrap his head around the whole ordeal. Hell, I am, too.

I nod along with his words, chewing attentively. Marco's definitely a better cook than Eren and I enjoy the taste of his eggs. He doesn't overload them with salt and cheese like some people. "So...did you...?" My attempt at keeping the awkward from my voice is a total failure, but it's too late for me to abort mission. "Did you enjoy it?" My face burns and I cover the awkward embarrassment with shoveling more eggs in my mouth.

Marco smirks in response, setting his fork down with a clank and rolling his eyes at me. "Very eloquently put, Jean," The smirk turns gentle again and Marco goes back to his food with a soft shrug. "And I  _did_ enjoy it, thanks."

I nod again, focusing on my bacon.

"Though, the French was my favorite part," Marco adds quickly.

My first instinct is to yell at him and flick a forkful of eggs right in his face, but I swallow it down with the rest of my food and sit back in my seat, staring up at the textured ceiling. I don't find anything up there. "That was good," I shrug nonchalantly, "I didn't know you speak it, too, though,"

The coffeemaker gives a tiny  _ping!_ and Marco gets up from his seat with a smile. "Barely," He says and pulls two mugs from the cupboard, one black with a skull and crossbones brandished over a line of crooked text reading "Toxic", the other a soft yellow with a clumsy picture of an orange and black cat baked on the front. "I took a class in high school and and didn't learn jack shit; I only know a few phrases." He sits back down and pushes the black mug toward me, steam swirling up from the rim. "There's creamer in the cupboard behind you,"

"Gotta love high school," I sigh inspecting my mug, "You didn't slip me anything, yeah?" I eye Marco, putting in some hazelnut creamer and a spoonful of sugar, swirling it all together with a few clinks in the mug.

Marco sips casually from his granny mug and smacks his lips together. "Just some acid."

"Oh, good," I sigh sarcastically, rolling my eyes, "I thought there were going to be  _vitamins_ or something in this." I pad over and plant a small kiss on his forehead before returning to my seat. "Thank for looking out for me, hun."

Marco hums with a small smile and takes another sip from his mug.

"Nice cup, by the way," I gesture lightly to the dead-eyed monstrosity in his hands, a slightly smile playing at my lips.

Marco returns the smile. "Thanks," He beams proudly, but with a slight hint of defensiveness, "My sister made it for me before I left for college." Marco's dimples dip nostalgically and his eyes do that sparkly thing again, and I just about die right where I sit. And what an odd scene; a tall boy with piercings and an emblem tattoo on his right thigh, a messy faux hawk complete with blue and green coon tail feathers behind his left ear, and he's brightly sipping coffee from an ugly cat mug from his sister.

A comfortable silence falls over us and I sigh into my coffee, watching a few bubbles swirl around in the light brown mixture. Marco's leaned back in his seat, one leg folded with his ankle under his other thigh, which sways lazily. A thin beam of sunlight catches in his hair from the window, casting highlights in the almost-black color, and I find myself staring at him. A light curve curls his full lips, not deep enough to show off his dimples, and the line between his eyebrows is gone. I wish I could see Marco wearing something other than the black and red I normally see him in; he'd look really good in light blue or lavender, but he'd also look good in anything.

It takes me a moment to register the vibrating in my pocket.

I pull out my phone at the same time I pull myself from my head and look at the name on the screen. It's my dad. I just know he's going to talk about Thomas. "Hello?"

His voice is low and patient and I'm immediately on high alert, sitting upright in my seat and looking minimally at Marco. "Where are you?" Dad isn't dancing around with smalltalk so I know he means business. There's few crackling on the other end of the line, but I can hear someone talking in the background. I can't tell if he's home.

"Uh," I give Marco a warning look when he raises his eyebrow at me, "S-study session."

"For three hours?"

"There's a lot of stuff to go over," I defend weakly and get up from my seat. Marco, thankfully, hasn't said a word the whole time, and I would kiss him if the situation were different. I still walk out of the kitchen, picking nervously at my collar and starting a slow pace over the light carpet. "We did some homework as well,"

The person in the background stops talking and I hear Dad sigh, "Well, hurry home. Your mother's getting worried."

"A-alright." I stammer and my throat jumps. Not even a mention of Thomas. "I'll get ready."

The line goes dead and I drop my phone from my ear, staring off into space for a moment before sauntering back into the kitchen. 

Marco's up from his seat, rinsing his plate in the sink and chugging the rest of his coffee. "Home?" He asks and leads the way back downstairs to his room. He's quick with the buckle of his jeans and slipping a thin jacket over my shirt. 

I pull on my sweatshirt, smoothing out my bedhead and rubbing my eyes with the heels of my hands. "Can you just drop me off at the bus station?" I ask and sling my backpack over both shoulders with a flourish. "I can walk the rest of the way."

Marco looks at me a moment, a slight smirk crinkling his nose. "Don't want to scare the neighborhood biddies again?" But something in my gaze makes his face soften and he nods once. "I can do that."

The cool wind buffeting my neck and nipping at my fingers goes unnoticed the whole way to the bus station. What I  _do_ notice is how well of a driver Marco actually is; he doesn't blast through intersections or round corners like before, and I might have wondered if he only did it to mess with me if I weren't so nervous the entire time. Marco gives me a swift kiss on the lips, telling me to be safe before revving the engine and pulling out of the dim parking lot. I can still hear the monstrous roar of the Ducati as I make it home, walking faster than I normally would.

I try to remain quiet as possible creeping through the front door, but Dad's in the living room, a glass of wine on the arm of his chair. Just like him to ambush me like that, I should have seen it coming sooner.

"Hey," I breathe nervously, standing in the front hallway like a deer in the headlights.

Dad says nothing, nodding at the couch in front of him once.

I make a small hesitation before migrating over nimbly, sitting down like I'm in an interrogation chamber. From the way Dad's looking at me, I probably  _am._

He drains the rest of the dark purple liquid from his cup, refilling it slowly before speaking. "Where were you?" His legs are crossed like he's at some business conference and I can't help feeling very small in comparison. The strange shadows from the chandelier overhead make his eyes look darker, and the only thing I can think of right now is  _The Godfather_.

I find myself fidgeting uncontrollably. "Study session," I state simply.

Dad sizes me up, his blue eyes piercing me in an uncomfortable way. "With whom?"

"A friend," I try again for simplicity, but the look Dad gives me makes me spit it out, "Named Marco."

"Is he the one you went to the movie with?"

"Yeah,"

Dad looks at me, swirling his glass, before taking a sip. "The night you assaulted Thomas Wagner?" He asks in a dangerously light voice. His eyes are casual, but I'm no fool to think he's anywhere near calm. Colin Wagner, Thomas's just-as-shitty father, has joint ownership of Dad's power plant and is not known to be very forgiving.

A bad taste fills my mouth and I cringe. "That's not what happened," I square my shoulders despite the quivering in my gut, and keep my voice firm. "It was defense."

Dad purses his lips testily. "Please elaborate," He crosses his legs the other way and I know he already doesn't believe me. I have the same temper as him, and it's just like me to fuck someone up solely because they were ticking me off. It's happened before.

The color drains slowly from my face and I look down at my hands. "He was being rude to one of my friends. He was asking him if he could get into the theatre for free or something and just being an ass about the whole thing. I told Thomas to stop, like, twice before even touching 'im and even then I gave him a chance to apologize."

"Which friend?" Dad's voice is even and it pisses me off. It pisses me off that he's so good at hiding how he feels and that he's so casual about this. I'm his fucking son, I should get the benefit of the doubt.

"Armin," I look him hard in the eye, just  _asking_ him to say something.

But Dad just throws his head against the back of his chair with an aggravated sound. "Again with that Arlert girl?" He groans and rubs his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I thought that whole thing was forgotten when you got out of high school,"

I seethe at his choice of pronouns, but don't even try correcting him; there is no point, anyway. "Apparently not,"

Dad sighs again, "Yeah, you certainly made sure of that,"

I just narrow my eyes and fold my arms tightly. "Is there a point to this?"

Dad doesn't say anything for a long time, eyeing me up again like I'm a piece of meat and chewing the inside of his mouth thoughtfully. "What was your new friend's name again?"

I scowl suspiciously. "Why?" 

He just shrugs, swirling his wine again, but drinking none of it. "Just wondering?"

"Marco," I say cautiously, leaning back in my seat and crossing my arms. "And he had nothing to do with what happened at the movie theatre. He actually pulled me off Thomas."  _And Thomas would be fucked up a lot more if it weren't for Marco._

"Did he now?" Dad asks in that same condescending, disinterested tone. My skin prickles with impatience and aggravation, and my hands ball into fists under my arms, nails digging into the flesh of my palms.

I roll my jaw stiffly. "Yes," My mood had been so high only an hour ago and now it's totally flat-lining; what the fuck, Dad? What does it fucking matter to you, anyway?

"How long have you known Marco?" Dad asks, keeping his voice cool, but he holds his glass in both hands, staring into its mouth instead of at me. I hate the way he says Marco's name, like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Like it isn't a good thing to say around small children and old people.

My jaw tightens, but I still manage a response, albeit not a complete sentence, "Beginning of the school year," I make a conscious effort to loosen my white-knuckled fists, "We sat next to each other in Statistics." The shaking in my gut stops after a few small breaths and my jaw relaxes. "Why?" I ask for the second time tonight.

The look in Dad's eye makes me want to eat my words and wash them down with battery acid. His left eyebrow quirks up, a usual reaction when he's thinking something through deeply, and he twirls the now empty wine glass in his hands slowly. He's got something for me and I know like all hell it's not something I'm going to like at all. 

Dad sets his wine glass down on the glass-panel coffee-table between us, a small drop of wine still pooling right at the bottom, and smacks his lips together. He leans back, throwing his arms behind him across the back of the couch in a scene of casualty I'm not familiar seeing him in. A slight smile plays at his lips and he says, "Why not introduce us?"

* * *

I make it down the sidewalk at a brisk pace, crumpling my shoulders and arms against myself in an attempt to keep the stiff wind from blowing me over. Cars whizz past me, some turning right at the intersection ahead of me, and I keep my eyes on the concrete. 104th street in downtown Trost has the most car accidents in the whole city, and I keep as close to the buildings on my right as possible with brushing against them.

The red hand at the crosswalk is already flashing before I'm even halfway past the wide white lines and I skip awkwardly to get to the curb before the light turns green and I'm flattened like a bug under the large, red truck rumbling loudly under the streetlight. I know where I'm going, and my stomach does a few little flip flops when the red-brick building comes into view. 

Legion Tattoo Parlor is way scarier than it has any right to be, with frosted windows and blue and orange graffiti scaling the whole side of the building. There's a dangerous crack in the sidewalk, the kind that makes suspicious little kids leery as they grab their mom's hand and make a conscious effort not to step on it, a few feet from the front entrance, the white painted wood in the threshold warped and weathered. Two neon lights flash obnoxiously in the front window, one screaming that they're open, the other brightly advertising the word "Tattoo".

A tiny bell jingles overheard when I push the glass door open to the acidic smell of ammonia and bright florescent lights.

I've never been in a tattoo shop, but I was expecting it to be more...prison-like. I wasn't wagering on clean white walls and classic water paintings and a fucking  _receptionist._ Granted, he's a fucking giant and covered in ink.

"Can I help you?" The blond giant asks me, giving me a look like I don't belong here. I agree, man, I definitely do not belong in this place.

My teeth grit at the high mechanical whirring coming from one of the rooms behind him and I step up to the desk meekly, feeling more vulnerable in here than I was outside in the fucking tornado. "Um, is Marco Bodt here?" It's embarrassing how unsure my voice sounds and I clear my throat.

Blondie leers at me before looking back to his computer and typing something on the keyboard quickly. I try to keep from staring at the blue and red Chinese dragon twisting on his neck and dipping into his black shirt. "Just a moment." He grunts and nods to the plastic chairs in front of the window, "You can take a seat,"

It's more of an order than a suggestion, and the hair on the back of my neck prickles nervously.

"Thanks." I nod and sit down between a short girl with red hair and pretty brown eyes and a frowning man with stark black hair and a serious need to pet a big dog or hold a sleeping baby or something. Seriously, I can feel his annoyance rolling off him in waves when I sit down, and make a sure point not to make eye contact. My knee starts bouncing minimally out of nervous habit.

The burly receptionist gets up from his seat and wanders back to the last room on the right, knocking on the door once before poking his head in and coming back down the short hall with a stony expression. He doesn't look my way when he sits down, tapping away at his computer like nothing happened. I wonder what he just did and my question is quickly answered.

Marco pops his head out of the doorway, a big smile creeping on his face when he spots me still bouncing my knee in the plastic chair. "Finally decided on those nipple piercings?" He asks loud enough for everyone in a fifteen foot vicinity to hear, stepping out of the doorway enough to lean on the hinge and take off his purple latex gloves with a rubbery snap.

My face flares a dangerous red and the girl next to me turns away, her hand going up to her mouth as she chokes on a laugh. 

Marco seems deeply pleased with my reaction and walks to the front desk. "What's up, Buttercup?"

I stand, ignoring the pet name, and walk over to him with cheeks still burning. "Can I talk to you privately?" I ask.

The silver on his eyebrow winks in the bright lights when Marco leers cautiously at me, nodding once and knocking lightly on the giant's desk. "Reiner, I'll be out back if you need me. I'll only be a few minutes."

The giant called Reiner doesn't look up from the computer screen, just grunts and nods his acknowledgment, and Marco leads me to a single door at the very end of the hall. It opens to an empty tattooing room with a mint green pump chair covered in a sheet of crinkly paper. It smells sterile in here and I scrunch up my nose before turning back to him. "Don't think I'm mad," I start out, "I just isn't want to make a scene."

"A scene?" Marco quirks an eyebrow at me. "What's going on?" He breezes over to the black wheely chair next to a counter with a silver medical tray on, sitting backwards and resting his arms on the back, swaying slightly from side to side.

I take a deep breath, scuffing my shoe on the light linoleum before looking back at him. "My dad talked to me the other night..."

Marco rolls his eyes and sighs. "Here we go,"

"He thinks you're a bad influence on me,"

Marco looks at me for a moment and starts laughing, carding a hand through his hair and gazing at me with smiley eyes. "I  _am_ a bad influence on you, Jean," He shakes his head with a grin and spins in a circle in his chair, his Dr. Martens tip-toeing the floor lightly. "So what does that mean?"

The faint buzzing of a tattoo needle filters in from one of the rooms again and it gives me the chills. I wander over to the green chair at the center of the room, tracing a finger over the sterile leather and not looking at Marco. "...He wants you to come over for dinner," I cringe, my face feeling hot. "Ta scope you out."

Marco's silent for a long moment, his eyes going wide before a bright smile breaks out over his face and he scoffs. "Well, jeez, it's not like we're  _dating_ or anything," Marco laughs, but his eyes soften again at the withering look I give him. 

"I'm sure most of this is just to be certain I'm not just making you up or something, but," I swallow. "My dad's pretty hard to impress." I shrink behind the chair still fiddling with the stitching. "You don't have to if you don't want to, I just...thought it'd be good to ask first." I'm still cringing when I look back up at him, shoulders hunched and feeling like a nervous little boy.

Silence fills the room for a moment as Marco thinks it through, and I feel like I'll pop with anticipation. The air is thick, the arid smell sticking to the back of my throat. It reminds me of a dentist office, complete with buzzing instruments and wincing patients.

I twitch once when Marco finally pipes up. "Okay," He says coolly, his wrists hanging listless in front of him on the chair. "I'll go. What do you want me to do?"

I'll be honest with myself, I hadn't planned this far. Most of the mental prepping I'd gone through this morning was about making it into the tattoo shop in one piece. "Uhh," I cough eloquently, "Just...dress nice, I guess. And you can't bring the bike, my mom would have a coronary if she knew it was you."

Marco waves his hand dismissively, "I'll borrow Eren's car," He stands from his seat with a soft smile. "Is this why you're acting all squirrelly right now? 'Cause you're scared of your family meeting me?"

"No," I shake my head, scowling at my dirty shoes. "I'm scared of  _you_ meeting my family. They're a bunch of whackos,"

Marco hums, pursing his lips sarcastically and taking my hand gently. His fingers are still a little starchy from the rubber gloves, but I don't really care. "Whackos are my type," Marco presses a short kiss to my knuckles. "I have to get back to work, but we can discuss the details later." He squeezes my hand once before walking to the door and pulling it open once again, and I follow after him, giving a final, slight wave as he goes into the last door on the right with a girl sitting on the same mint colored chair as the one in the spare tattoo room.

Marco's roommate, Eren, is hunched over the receptionist's desk when I walk by, a yellow pencil behind his ear as he scribbles a quick drawing of what  _could_ be an emblem similar to the one Marco has on his upper thigh, but it's too sloppy for me to decipher. He looks up when I pass, uninterested at first, but, upon doing a double take, a smile breaks over his features.

"Hey, Jean," He drawls in a voice too chummy for someone I've met only a handful of times. "What's up?"

"Nothing much," I shrug, sauntering past. "Just had to talk to Marco. I'm leaving now."

Eren follows me into the windstorm outside, his shirt ruffling wildly in the strong wind. "So, about your friend Armin," He starts, making me roll my eyes, and we walk down the sidewalk together. "I'm just curious, but what kind of stuff is he into?" Eren shoves both hands in the pockets of his jeans, smiling amiably at me.

"Uh," I squint against the strong wind, following Eren's lead and putting my hands in my jacket pockets. "I don't know. He likes nice people, but he's pretty deep in schoolwork at the moment."

"Oh," Eren looks a little put out, "Well, do you think he'd say yes to a date?" He looks up at me with bright green, hopeful eyes.

I shrug down at him. "Honestly?"--Eren nods eagerly--"I don't really know." I respond flatly, and the glare I get from Eren gives me silent satisfaction. "You'd really have to ask him yourself, I'm not his errand boy."

"Would you ask him for me?"

I roll my eyes again, jamming my thumb into the button at the crosswalk, returning my hand quickly to the safety of my warm pockets. "I _just_ said I'm not his errand boy," 

Eren shakes his head with a grin, catching the crack in my resolve. "Don't consider it an errand, Jean," He coasts me with, "think of it as...a friendly favor!" The eager smile is back. He reminds me of a boy asking Santa for a toy.

I raise a stark eyebrow at him, not going down easy. "We're friends?"

Eren nods his head, shrugging casually, "If you do this for me, yeah. We're friends."

I stare at him for a moment longer when the walk symbol flashes. I don't feel like having a tag-along so I let him off easier than I wanted to. 

"Fine," I step out into the road, talking over my shoulder. "I'll call and ask, but I give no guarantees he'll say yes."

Eren remains planted on the curb, bouncing on the balls of his feet and cupping both hands around his mouth with a bright smile. "Thank you!" he calls and his voice is barely heard in the high-speed, chilly wind; and I  _might_ have cracked a smile, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...i've never written smut before. I don't have a sex drive or a penis for that matter and I really don't know what the fuck I'm doing. Please comment and tell me how I did 'cause I'm super nervous!
> 
> this was an experience. I was kind of nervous that the beginning was going to be a little shoddy, but I'm really happy with how this chapter turned out. Unfortunately, like I said before, updates will take a little bit longer now that school is starting up, but I will do my best to keep you posted! You can follow my Tumblr @ www.whipperschnapper.tumblr.com and ask me any questions. I track both #fic: Autopilot and #whipperschnapper if you have something you want to show me!
> 
> Thank you for reading and likes and comments are always greatly appreciated!
> 
> EDIT: for anyone wondering, I do not consider Marco a bottom. Most of the stuff happening in this chapter build setting for the rest of the story. There will definitely more smut with him completely dominating so strap in kiddies and please be patient with me. I promise to practice writing sex scenes more 'cause I know this shit was terrible, and I thank you all for taking the time to read my story!


	7. Meet the Parents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slides this under the table like this isn't months late*
> 
> smut isn't exactly my forte. I'm sorry, but I'm trying.

I'm infinitely afraid of what will happen the night of our family dinner with Marco, and I chomp and grate at my bottom lip the whole way home. I worry at my thumbnail with my legs crossed tightly over each other, staring out the plexiglass window of the train and very nearly miss my station I'm so caught up in my own head. Dad was planning on meeting on Halloween night, one week from now, and I can't get the image of Marco showing up with color contacts and false vampire fangs for the occasion out of my head. 

I stomp upstairs to my room as soon as I'm home, closing and locking the door before taking a long, deep breath. I lean against the frame for a moment, gathering my thoughts as best I can. After nearly three whole months of knowing the guy you'd think I'd have a little more trust in Marco, but I'm a naturally _un_ trusting person and I have learned enough in those past three months that Marco is as non-conformative as they come. The type to loiter right next to one of those "Keep off the grass" signs just so he could get a picture, and definitely not the type to obey old authority like my father.

My room is still dark from this morning; I always forget to open the blinds when I leave for class, and the sun peeks enticingly from between the shades, casting slight pillars of dust mote-filled sunlight in a horizontal pattern on the plush white carpet. I strip from my jacket and scarf, stepping on the heels of my shoes to kick them off and make my way across the room to the window. The little beads at the end of the string clink hollowly on the wall when I rip the blinds up to the very top, filling my room immediately with yellow sunlight. The wind storm from earlier has finally blown over, taking the lately-constant topping of grey clouds in its wake, leaving the dull blue autumn sky and pale sun to dry the sidewalks and decaying leaves in the street. And the chilly smell of those decaying leaves fill my room as I crack the window open, sticking my head out into the cool air and taking a giant breath.

It's fucking amazing how therapeutic just holding your breath for a few seconds in a silent room can really be. The air from my lungs clouds in front of me for only a moment before slipping into the breeze, my ears and fingertips feeling mind-clearingly cold. One more gulp of crisp autumn air suffices enough that I bring myself back inside, but keep the window gaping open.

The musty smell helps to clear my head of any lingering worry and I rip off my sweater, sticking with the white undershirt instead as I flop on my bed to work on homework. I doubt I'll be able to do much focusing anyway, but it doesn't help to try, I guess. And my Chem homework definitely isn't going to do itself any time soon.

I'm twenty minutes into scribbling my way through an essay on how drugs effect the brain and body when my phone chimes next to me. It's from Armin, and I chew my lip, debating whether or not I should halt my writing progress to talk to him before shrugging and flicking my pen away from me, kicking my feet up and laying back on the mountain of pillows behind me. 

_**From: Armin** _

_Would you happen to know if Eren goes to_   _Trost with you and Marco??_

Aw, I've never seen Armin text with  _two_ question marks. That's cute.

**_To: Armin_ **

_yeah he's at trost. why do you ask?_

Just kidding, my sweet summer child, I know _exactly_ why you ask. There's a span of about two minutes where Armin doesn't respond and I have half a brain to get back to my essay, but my phone chimes and I'm drug back into his cute little questionnaire. 

_**From: Armin** _

_I was just wondering! ^-^ Thank you, Jean!_

_So secretive?_ It isn't like Armin to hold information away like that; he's not one for vagueness. Maybe his and Eren's feelings are mutual. Messaging Eren (or Eren through texts from Marco; I don't have his number) only crosses my mind for about 0.005 seconds before I lay my phone face-down on my nightstand and get back into the zone of writing. I've procrastinated homework way too long, and if I don't get on it now, there's no fucking way I'm going to get a good grade on my finals.

The wind catches up again, and I have to close my window from how cold it suddenly is. Goosebumps pimple on my arms, my neck feels tight, and my hands are colder than is ever comfortable for a regular human, and I put a jacket on before shoving my Chemistry book from my lap and rolling out of bed. I creep downstairs to the living room where it's dark and shadowed, and the wind barreling against the windows makes me leery (we don't get tornados in Trost, too many mountains) but not enough to open any curtains. The TV is turned to a low volume on some news station or another, and I settle into the soft cushions after grabbing a blanket from the woven basket right of the couch.

My feet tucked under me, knees pulled to my chest and arms folded tightly between them, and I'm a bona fide fucking shivering eskimo. What the fuck, why is it so cold?

I'm too buttfuck lazy to get off my ass and turn up the thermostat, so I keep it parked on the couch, flipping disinterestedly through channel after channel with stiff fingers until I settle for some cartoon or another. I'm not paying attention to much of it, scrolling through every fucking app on my phone before getting bored of that too and getting up. I leave the TV on because I'm a power-wasting piece of shit, wrapping my blanket around my shoulders and padding into the kitchen. I'm not particularly in the mood for coffee at the moment, but I do want something to warm me up. Some soup sounds like heaven now that I think of it. I turn the dial and the burner is a warm, dull orange by time I get the pot on it, grabbing a can of Chicken Noodle from the pantry. Opening the can while trying to keep my blanket cape secure is a fucking feat, but I get it done anyway, tipping the broth into the pot with a small splash. I feel like a little kid standing in the middle of the kitchen with my chin tucked into my blanket cape, stirring my soup occasionally with a somber expression and holding my hands at a safe distance from the burner to get some feeling into them. I'm fairly certain Marco would laugh at seeing me like this had he been here.

I keep the stove at a low simmer after filling a bowl with soup in case I want the rest later, and shuffle meticulously back to my spot on the couch. My butt pushes on the remote when I sit down, switching the channel, but I don't really notice; soup is a fuckton more important to my freezing ass right now.

"We--" I nearly choke on my spoon at that little jingle, my eyes flitting to the T.V screen as I hunker a little deeper into the couch cushion with my knees pulled up to my chest and my blanket snug around my shoulders, "Are the crystal gems!" I hum along to the tune. I don't watch  _Steven Universe_ enough to have the opening song memorized, but it's cute. A good thing to watch to get your mind off things for a few moments.

I finish my soup before the episode is over, and I could eat more, but, again, I'm lazy as fuck. So I set my bowl on the coffee table and tuck my feet under my legs and continue with my show. I'm not even paying attention, I've already seen this episode, and I find it incredibly hard to keep my eyes open after only a few more minutes of sitting there. I let them slide closed, my head tilting to the side slightly, and I'm asleep in minutes.

I wake up to the sound of the front door clicking shut. The T.V is on a different show, one that I don't recognize and honestly looks too stupid for me to consider watching, so I grab my bowl and walk back to the kitchen. "Reese?" I call toward the front room.

There's a slight delay, then Clarice's voice lilts its way into the kitchen. "Yeah, I just got home." Another pause. "I have a lot of homework. Don't bother me, please." 

I hear her creak up the stairs then, and her door seems to shut a little too eagerly, but I don't want to push it. For all I know she got her first vibrator or something, and God  _knows_ I don't want to interrupt  _that._ I stick to flipping absently through the channels again until I'm bored enough to actually get up. I  _could_ do homework, but I don't necessarily  _want_ to. 

I really need to get myself motivated. I pull out my phone and flip through my contacts.

_**To: Marco** _

_make me do my homework daddy :(_

I glare (pout actually) at my screen until he responds. It takes a while, what with him still being at work and all.

_**From: Marco** _

_You're disgusting_

Well that's just plain rude.

_**To: Marco** _

_please daddy??_   _:,((_

Again, there's a long pause, and I can picture Marco either laughing or glaring disgustedly at his phone. Though disgust seems like it'd be the better bet.

_**From: Marco** _

_You're lack of concern for professionalism is unseemly, young man. The Daddy Kink is sick and wrong._

**_To: Marco_ **

_kinkshame me daddy ;(_

**_From: Marco_ **

_Call me Daddy one more fucking time and see what happens >:(_

I smirk at the threat and his frown-y face. But mostly his frown-y face.

_**To: Marco** _

_daddy ;3c_

I set my phone back with brazen satisfaction only to have it start buzzing in my hand mere moments later. I can't help laughing, putting the screen to my face.

"Stop," Marco says exasperatedly on the other end. "Please stop."

I laugh again. "Aw, what's wrong, daddy?"

"I'm not ready to be a father." Marco says darkly. "And you make me feel like a pedophile when you say that."

"Then help me start my homework!" I whine into the phone like the little pissbaby I am.

"Start your homework," Marco says simply and I can hear him shrugging. "It can't be that hard, can it?"

"It is," I moan again and flop back on the couch, staring up at the ceiling. There are no shapes or objects to be found in the smooth paint, and I frown deeply. "I need some motivation, da--"

" _Don't_ say it!" Marco interrupts testily. "I swear to God, Jean, do you want me to help you or not?"

I pout again, my lip actually sticking out, and scowl at nothing. "...Yes, please."

"What homework do you have?"

"Stats and Chem," I grumble distastefully.

Marco sighs. "Okay," he pauses a moment, clicking his tongue on the other end, and it sounds grainy. "I get off in about an hour. Can you manage until then?"

I sigh also, fiddling with my hair absently. "I guess..."

"Fine, I'll be over then." Marco plans, "And I'll trade cars with Eren in the interim to spare the neighborhood crones their heart attacks."

"Thank you,"

"No problem."

I hang up and stare at my phone screen made oily from being pressed against my face. I wipe it on my shirt, and it's still a little streaky, but I don't care. I just smile like a big goof, still staring at my phone, and only cut it out after dropping it on my face.

* * *

My oily face is washed and I'm changed out of my pajamas when Marco gets to my house. Clarice is oddly quiet up in her room, and has been for the past hour or so, but it's too late to check on her now. I open the door before Marco's even made it to the porch, and he's changed clothing as well, swapping his black Anarchy t-shirt for a sports grey v-neck with the sleeves rolled up over his bicep and holy hell  _slay me_ he looks way hotter than he has any right to.

Marco walks away from a silver Jeep Liberty complete with those stupid headlights above the windshield, clicking the remote fob over his shoulder and emitting a high-pitched chirp from the car as he slips into the house. He pecks me swiftly when the door is safely closed behind him and he's positive the hall is clear of prying eyes. 

"What's up, Sugar?" Marco chirps and winks at me with a half-grin.

I try to look unamused, but that bright twinkle in his eyes makes it impossible, and curl on my toes a little (only a _little_ because I'm _tall_ ) to return the kiss. "I can't  focus for shit, that's what up." I lead the way into the living room to the same couch we had our first, super clumsy (and half-drunk on my part) make out session that haunts the back of my mind every time I see my father sitting there. My shit is strewn out over the coffee table, my Statistics textbook open on the center cushion of the couch.

"Aw," Marco says, mockingly sympathetic and pats my cheek a little too hard. "Well, fear not, my dear. Dr. Marco is here to cure all ailments; procrastination included."

I roll my eyes and sit next to him, pushing my empty backpack to the side with my foot. "Thanks, Doc," I reply sardonically, and I can still smell the faint odor of antiseptics and tattoo ink on him. It makes me crinkle my nose.

"So, what's up?" Marco asks and sets his backpack next to his feet.

I shrug, "I have an assignment in Chem and two in Stats that I need to finish by next week." Grabbing my Chemistry book, I flip to the right page, where I've already started a mass exodus of doodling in the cramped margins between the highlights, pointing to the middle of the left page. "I already have most of the Chem stuff finished, it's just getting there that I'm stuck on."

Marco smiles at me, "Then let's start with that first."

I finish my Chemistry homework by the hour, and my head hurts from it. Not because I'm lazy (which I am, but that's not the point) I'm just unfocused. It's taking all my energy to make sense of the jumbled mess of words in front of me, and even more so to write it down coherently. But Marco's the best tutor I've ever had. He doesn't fuck around, and he doesn't let me either, which totally sucks at the moment, but I'm essentially grateful for it.

Marco taps my textbook with his finger, making a hollow knocking sound that knocks me from my reverie. "Stay focused, Jean," He says patiently from the other side of the coffee table. "You're doing fine, just finish the rest of this problem and we'll take a break." He has his legs crossed, elbows on his knees, and he's watching my every move like a fucking hawk.

I almost groan, but that would be annoying, so I settle for blowing hair from my face. My pencil feels oddly top-heavy, like the eraser is just begging to drag over my whole assignment because I  _know_ I've messed up  _somewhere,_ but I do as Marco says and trudge through the rest of the model. I feel brazenly triumphant as I write the final number on my Stem plot, throwing my pencil down like it has a contagious STD and emitting a mighty sigh of relief.

"This is  _haaard_ ," I whine exasperatedly, throwing my head back on the couch behind me.

"It get's easier." Marco says simply.

"My head hurts."

"That means you're thinking."

I roll my eyes at him and glare. "Shut the fuck up, Smartypants." 

Marco smiles at me mockingly, but his eyes are kind. "Aw, little rich boy has a headache?"

I seethe, " _Yes._ "

"Well, fine." Marco snips, and rolls over onto his knees, crawling over to me from the other side of the coffee table. A teasing smile still plays at his lips as he wraps one arm around my shoulders and kisses me right on the mouth. He doesn't use his tongue at first, keeping it clean, but even that gets boring after a while, and I'm soon tasting the sweet metallic tang of his tongue stud. The fogginess slowly starts to fade, the thick cloud in my head dissipating into something I can almost recognize--

And then it's over and Marco's putting my fucking notebook back in my hands and telling me to get back to work. What the literal fuck, dude.

And we headache through five more fucking problems before even he gives up hope in me. He squishes my cheeks between his hands, leaning into me. "Focus, Jean." He says desperately, but my brain is a jumbled pile of mush at this point. I probably couldn't spell my own name if I tried.

"I  _caaan't,_ " I whine back at him and make my best pouty face. "I can't think straight, Marco."

He let's go of my face with a heavy sigh, pillowing his head in his arm. "You're hopeless..." Marco muses and its muffled against his skin.

"I know." I say flatly with a deadpan expression.

Marco's head rolls back and he stares at the ceiling, shaking his head ever so slightly. "There's only one more thing I can think of now."

I pitch forward into the side of his shoulder with a pained look. "No more math,  _please_ ,"

Marco sighs and rolls his eyes with an almost wolfish grin, "I know." He sits forward with gusto then, swiping his stuff into his backpack with one swift motion and stands. "Come on, get your shit." Marco motions me up and I just stare dumbly at him.

"Wha?" I say from the back of my throat, "Why?"

"Just trust me," Marco insists and beckons me up again. "You'll like it, I promise."

I quirk an eyebrow at him, but give him my hands nonetheless, letting him hoist me to my feet. I grab my backpack, lacing it over my shoulder and follow Marco confusedly. 

"I have to tell my sister I'm leaving." I tell him weakly as he opens the door, and scramble quickly up the stairs while he waits for me in Eren's car. 

Clarice's door is locked and the hallway dark when I trudge upstairs, knocking ever so precariously on her door.

"I'm naked!" Clarice practically screams when I knock, and I swear on my grave I hear something hard fall on the floor. "Don't come in!"

Yeah, she was totally masturbating. Great.

"I'm heading out for a few hours," I call through the door, and don't wait for a response as I streak down the stairs, out the door, and into Eren's jeep with my backpack strung over one shoulder.

Marco looks...thoughtful as he drives, and it kind of makes me nervous. He glances my way close to never as he makes it onto the freeway, and I hope like hades it's because he's focused on the road. Had the situation been different, I might have pointed out how weird it looks to see him in a closed car; the image doesn't look right, like he was designed specifically for motorcycle riding, but my throat feels weird and the thoughts only a brief register in the back of my mind. I realize after a few minutes that we're en route to his and Eren's home, and that makes me extra nervous. So much so that I'm clutching my backpack to my chest with my knees pressed together when he pulls into the carport.

"Come on, you baby," Marco says with a grin and gets out of the car. He doesn't wait for me, waltzing right up to the door, and flashes that wolfish grin at me from the doorstep. It doesn't fade, not even a little, even after I slowly click out of my seatbelt and meander over to him, still clutching tight to the straps of my bag.

Marco laughing makes me jump. "Don't look so tense, Sugar," He tosses his backpack on the landing once inside, smiling sweetly, but there is still that wicked gleam there. "You look like you've just walked into the lions' den."

I smirk over at him. I'll be damned before someone scares the sarcasm out of me. "Is that _not_ what I've walked into?" I drawl.

"That depends, Sugar," His smile turns wicked again, and I swear to God Marco's eyes flit lightning fast to my lips before he says, "Do you want the fogginess pounded out of you, or not?" His voice drops dangerously low in volume, and he really does stare at my lips this time, stalking slowly toward me until my back is flush against the wall and his face is mere centimeters from mine. His breath smells like spearmint gum.

Marco puts one hand on either side of my face, leaning close, still staring at my lips. I'm trapped under both his weight and his stare and only a small portion of my brain registers how fast my heart is beating right now.

"Just say the word, Jean." Marco breathes slowly, eyes locked on my lips and long eyelashes casting a warm shadow over his cheeks. "Just say the word and I'll give it to you."

Marco's proximity and the way his mouth lingers just inches from mine makes my head swim. Between the confusion fogging up my brain and Marco's smell snaking all around me, I can barely feel my fingers still knotted nervously in my shirt. But I'm totally in control as I nod, my eyes trailing down to Marco's lips, the shiny piercing on his bottom lip that I dream about sucking on daily. My voice shakes as I finally say it, but I love the sound, the taste of the words on my lips.

" _Fuck me_."

And Marco's lips are against mine like the snap of my fingers, like the blink of an eye. They're soft and slow, and his hands press warm into my sides, his body holding me against the wall. Marco's tongue traces over my bottom lip, dipping smoothly into my mouth as his right hand goes up my shirt, tracing a searing trail into my clammy skin.

My arms are shaky, still nervous as my hands tighten around the taut muscle of Marco's bicep, and I gasp for air when he finally releases me with a faint _pop_ , tracing small circles into the side of my neck with his tongue. My head cranes back into the sensation, and I clutch desperately at the collar of Marco's shirt for support as my legs turn to goop.

"I've been practicing since last time," Marco purrs enticingly in my ear, his breath tickling my skin. "I wanted to impress you." His lips press into the skin behind my ear, next to the hairline, and I shiver deeply, panting loud and heavy. "Am I doing a good job?"

I'm gasping again, my eyes rolling shut and I hum. "Mmhmm,"

Marco smiles into my skin and bites down on my shoulder, nibbling lightly and making my knees shake. "I wanna hear you say it." He growls.

It's almost embarrassing the sound that escapes me at his voice, at the rasp to his words and the way he breathes into me. "Y-you're doing an amazing job, M-Marco," I pant and press my head into the wall again.

His hand shoots out and grabs me by the pants then, fiddling with the button of my jeans and pawing softly, making me hiss, and the other holds me against him. "Say my name again, please," Marco purrs and his thumb traces circles into my cock through my jeans, and I bite my lip. He kisses me again, sucking my bottom lip and his hand tightens just barely, making my legs burn.

"M-," I stutter shakily against his lips, "Marco."

He smiles against my lips, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he leans back just barely out of my reach and looks at me with bright brown eyes. "You're the prettiest color, Jean," Marco praises in a soft voice, and he doesn't sound near as winded as I am. He cranes his head forward again and kisses either of my burning cheeks, his hand still pawing at my jeans and making my stomach twist pleasurably. 

And then somehow we make it downstairs. I can't remember if he carried me like the last time we did this, or if I actually used my legs, but I'm being pushed toward Marco's bedroom, my hands snagging his collar in a vice grip, and my lower back burning everywhere he touches me. My lips travel over his, kissing his piercing and along the strong turn of his jaw, and he tastes even better than I remember.

My back hits his mattress and I bounce there once as Marco crawls on top of me, his legs straddling me on either side. He stops on my waist, sitting right on my pelvis with this sinister grin playing at his lips. His hands clasp mine, our fingers intertwining and he puts my hands over my head and kisses me again, making a nice line down my neck, pecking at my collarbones. Our hands only separate when Marco grabs the hem of my shirt and pulls it over my head, tossing it away and continuing his kiss trail down the center of my flushed chest. Something twitches in my lower gut and the burning intensifies, accompanied by a soft moan on my part when Marco takes the hand not grasping mine and slides his fingers enticingly into the hem of my pants.

The fire in my gut builds, spreading north and south and everywhere else, and my body is a sensitive pile of mush as Marco undoes the button of my jeans, his lips playing at my chest. They linger near my collarbones, always a soft distance from my shoulders, and I roll my back into the sensation of Marco's tongue flicking slowly over my skin.

My underwear is damp with pre-cum already as Marco discards my pants and takes off his shirt as well, gently guiding my hands over his warm chest before his lips crush into mine, hard and aggressive and so totally amazing that another moan escapes me. His tongue skates over the roof of my mouth, the metal stud stinging my own tongue with it's sour taste, and I shiver once, long and deep.

Marco's hands guide mine down to his pants, and I fumble clumsily with the stupid button on his jeans with one hand, fingers of the other tangled in the back of his head before finally ripping his pants down, keeping his mouth on mine the whole time. I trace the deep ridges of the colorful tattoo on his thigh with shaking fingers, rubbing as smoothy as I can manage at his warm skin. My eyes flutter shut, and I have the beginnings of massive chills starting at my shoulders and on to my lower back.

And then the sweet smell of roses wafts through the hot air along with the faint crinkle of a wrapper and Marco's pinkie finger slowly slides in, already knuckle-deep, and stretching smoothly. I gasp at the feeling, understanding the novelty he spoke of before, and swallow the drool building in the back of my throat. A second finger in makes my back arch wildly, muscles tightening and fingers tangling madly in the sheets of his bed and I'm panting heavily, my legs turning into jelly. My toes curl, feet flexing delightfully, and Marco lets me wrap my legs loosely around his waist.

"I swear you get prettier and prettier with every passing minute, Mr. Kirchstein." Marco growls in a husky voice, looming over me with gently flushed cheeks. He smirks and just barely crooks his fingers inside me and the smirk only deepens when I writhe beneath him, letting a low whine escape me between clenched teeth. The fire in my gut builds to a head, and I know Marco can tell how close I am as he slowly stretches me enough for him. 

Using his free hand, Marco reaches up and caresses my cheek, rubbing his thumb over the warm skin before his fingers trace down my chest, feather-like and taunting, and the scent of roses gets just barely stronger as his fingers scissor once, twice before they slip smoothly out of me.

I grunt loudly, my head craning back into the mattress, muscles constricting as Marco lines up. He looks for the okay from me before sliding in smoothly, gasping just barely audible, thrusting slowly, but steadily gaining speed. The sensation is novel, foreign, and my mouth waters at the strong feeling of Marco leaning over me, hands on either side of my head. I put my hands on his shoulders, fingers scratching into the flushed skin, and he leans closer, his breath mingling right next to mine. Marco's lips find their way to my throat again, sucking lightly and making my eyes roll back in pleasure. His lip piercing is an electric chill on my skin and goosebumps pimple wildly all over my chest. His fingers tangle in my hair and his lips find mine again, tender and swollen.

Marco starts gaining speed, hitting into me over and over and sending me deeper into oblivion with every thrust of his hips, my body feeling like it's on fire. I gasp at his size, holding his body close to mine to regain my breath, and taking it all greedily. I swallow the saliva accumulating in my mouth, one hand trailing up Marco's back and tangling in the back of his hair. The pressure in my gut grows almost painful, and Marco's already slick hand grabs hold of my dick gently, relieving it just barely with one smooth stroke in tandem with each thrust of his hips.

I catch my breath again, the hand on Marco's shoulder turning into a claw that digs deep into him and I whine again, and Marco laughs softly, his breathing just as heavy and desperate as my own. His muscles are tight and he bites his lip, something hotter than sin, and grunts with another thrust.

I'm so fucking close it hurts. My body's shaking. I feel like my heart is going to beat right out of my ribcage, and I feel Marco is balancing on that ledge right along with me. My toes curl one more time, eyes shut and back arched off the mattress like before.

Marco's moving faster and the tight ball of pressure in my gut finally unravels with a relieving burst that shakes right through me when he rubs his thumb right over my slit, circling the head of my dick, and I say his name in time with the final thrust he gives me. Marco comes seconds after me, his chest heaving deeply, shoulders shuddering, teeth biting into his bottom lip. He somehow manages to keep himself supported over me with his elbows, a lazy grin playing at his full, absolutely _gorgeous_ lips.

I gasp for breath, my muscles turning back to mush as I stare up at his ceiling. My body shakes weakly, but my mind is surprisingly clear after all that, and I even manage to crack a small smile. 

"So, how was that?" Marco asks in a low voice, his breathing still ragged. His head hangs right over mine, and he softly runs his fingers through my hair, pushing a few sticky strands from my forehead and kissing me once on the lips.

I'm still coming down from my orgasm, chest heaving, hands shaking, and all I can respond with is that same, dopey smile as I stare up at Marco.

It seems enough for him, and he kisses me again before his lips linger right by my ear, voice gentle, warm breath tickling my skin.

"And if you call me Daddy again, I'll beat the shit out of you."

I burst into peals of laughter, hitting him him lightly in the shoulder at that.

* * *

"I'm pretty sure Eren's got the hots for Armin," 

Marco looks over at me from his note taking, the space between his brows still puckering in concentration, and his pierced eyebrow quirks up sharply. "Huh?" He whispers distractedly.

I lean closer, pretending to take notes still, but I'm really just doodling random shit all over the page. I'm a bad student, kids, don't follow in my footsteps. "You know Armin, from the movie theatre. I think you're roommate's got it bad for him."

Marco's forehead crinkles and he looks surprisedly at me once before scribbling on his page again. "Really?"

"Yeah." I nod, "He followed me out of the tattoo shop the other day and was practically drooling at my feet."

Marco cracks half a smile and his tone shifts to mischievous. "Really..." He's silent for a long moment, and I think he's dropped the subject in place of drawing his (rather unimpressive) modal Stem plot on the center of his page, but then he turns down his pen and looks curiously at me. "What was he doing?"

I shrug casually, trying to look inconspicuous as possible, and keep the professor's eyes away from me. This guy looks rather testy today, even though I can't see his eyes under that sandy op of hair. "He just kept asking about him. Like what were his turn ons and stuff like that." I smirk and roll my eyes over to Marco, "he asked if I could set up a date with him."

Marco's eyebrows shoot up his forehead. "Seriously?" He laughs silently, a smile cracking his lips, and shakes his head bemusedly. "Who'd've thunk Eren would be so thirsty."

My scoff is quiet, but I still hang my head low and keep my voice lower. "Did you really just say 'thunk'?"

Marco rolls his eyes to the ceiling with the grin still planted firmly on his lips. "I pay very close attention to my syntax, Jean." His eyes roll to me, "maybe you should try it."

"You  _nerd_ ," I gasp tragically. 

Marco smiles head-on and I spot his Disney dimples, my heart fluttering away with the last words of the lecture. 

"Yeah, but I'm a hot nerd."

I can only sigh in agreement. "Well, when you put it that way..." I crinkle my nose and shove my shit carelessly into my bag, zipping it up and standing. "You're still a fuckin' nerd."

"Isn't smart a good thing?" Marco tries to defend. "Didn't I rectify myself from the 'just a nerd' phase?"

I shake my head, pursing my lips adamantly. "Once a nerd, always a nerd. Sorry, buddy, you're pretty well done for socially." I grin over my shoulder at him, walking down the hall a few paces ahead, "Soon the girls'll be running for the hills. They'll be screaming about cooties."

"I'm okay with the girls running, but the boys..." Marco follows behind me, pushing through groups of slow-fucking-moving people with the utmost and admirable respect. If only I were that nice of person. Oh, well. "I'll be sad if the boys think I have cooties."

I grin. "Oh, they do, believe me." A cold wind bites me in the neck the second we step out of the lecture building, and I pull the collar of my jacket just a tad closer. "Word on the street is they think you're a full-fledged cootie factory. Wouldn't come near you with a thirty foot pole, let alone _kiss_ you." I wink playfully at Marco, walking on the balls of my feet, each step bouncing a little more than normal as I tread close to his side.

"Well," Marco says solemnly. "I sure hope you got your cootie vaccination, cause I think you'll have some bad news the next time you go for a check-up if not." His eyes flash wickedly and he wiggles his eyebrows at me once.

"Are you suggesting cooties are an STD?" I crinkle my nose at him over my shoulder and try to suppress my smile, but it doesn't work very well. "Grody,"

Marco's smile is impish as he sits across the table from me, slapping his black bag on the table top with a hollow knock, and he rests his chin on his knuckles appraisingly. "So, what's on the agenda, Sugar?"

I tilt my head, squinting confusedly at him. "Which agenda?"

"The gay agenda,"

"Huh?"

Marco rolls his eyes at me, shaking his head and smiling softly. "Dinner with the family." He says patiently. "What are you planning?"

"Oh."

Marco quirks an eyebrow. "I'm guessing you want me to look presentable?"

I roll my eyes up to the ceiling, resting the back of my head on the headrest of the plastic chair, shrugging. "What's your definition of presentable?" The dark rafters are dusty as fuck up there, little dust motes dancing through the air around the florescent lights. The dining hall is cold again, a storm brewing on the horizon this morning and it's more likely than not that it's going to be raining by three this afternoon.

I don't look at Marco when he speaks up. "No piercings or extensions. Martens traded for sneakers. Tame hair." He shrugs when I glance up at him, "I  _might_ even wear a dress shirt for the occasion. Who knows..."

The tassel of my jacket that I'd been fiddling with slips from my fingers and I gape him, still slouched in my seat like a slug. "You'd do that for me?" I ask after a long moment, blinking out of it but not taking my eyes off Marco.

Marco himself snorts and smirks at me. "Of course I would," He says like it's totally obvious. "If your parents liking me means that much to you, I'm not going to sabotage it with my riot-boy antics. I may show it in a weird way, but I  _do_ care about you, Jean." He grins almost arrogantly at me, but the real compliment is still hidden there underneath.

I hurriedly swallow, pushing down the burning in my cheeks and scratch the side of my neck. "W-well, I knew  _that_." I intone childishly and fold my arms, avoiding eye contact. "I just thought--I don't know." I shrug, unable to find the right words for what I'm trying to say. "But don't think you have to change yourself for me." I make a face and shrug again, finally looking Marco in the eye.

But he just shakes his head at me. "I'm not changing myself, Jean, I'm adding formality. There is a difference." A grin cracks his features and he crinkles his nose. "Even  _I_ know eyebrow piercings and mohawks aren't meant to be classy. Kinda defeats the purpose of being rebellious if elitists don't have a problem with how I look."

I roll my eyes to the ceiling. "Jeez, do you _bleed_ anarchy, too?" I mutter sardonically.

Marco's grin turns mischievous, "I might."

I shake my head, my eyes still on the ceiling, and click my tongue. "All I want is for things to run smoothly. If you can do that, I think we'll be in the clear."

Marco's silent for a long time across the table from me and there isn't a trace of joking in his tone when he finally says, "I think we'll be fine."

* * *

I pace my room so much I'm certain there are scorch marks in the carpet, and even then I don't stop to take a breath. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth, but I still chomp the inside of my cheek like a cow chews cud. Cold sweat rolls down my back and I shake out my arms with a deep breath.

 _Please, Marco._ I think to myself and glance once through the blinds to see if he's here yet. He isn't.  _Please take this seriously. I know you said you would, but this is a whole new level of fucked._

I can't get the image of my father glaring disappointedly at me from across the dining room table as Marco frivolously gives us the details on his latest dick piercing over a nice pot roast curtesy of my mother. And then that scenario flips into some defiant competition to see how incredibly gay Marco can be without actually kissing me, and when  _that_ fails he just resorts to shoving his tongue down my throat right as Dad takes a bite of his mashed potatoes.

Fuck, I really need to work on my trust skills.

I find refuge in my bathroom, brushing furiously at my teeth until the bleeding in my mouth stops, using the sting of Listerine to distract me for at least a moment. But even that burning subsides after an amount of time, and I'm back to worrying again. I check my face in the mirror, spitting out the Listerine and wiping my mouth on the back of my hand. I wanted to look presentable enough to please my parents, but not so much they think this is a date or something. It's not a date, it's a friendly meeting between one of my college friends and my overbearing father and aloof mother and prying sister who are all bound to ask about Marco's relationship status because why wouldn't they  _and this is totally going to be my downfall I'm digging my own fucking grave--_

My mini panic attack is cut short by the sound or the doorbell. I zip to my window and surely enough, there's Eren's Jeep with it's stupid floodlights parked in the street in front of the house. Holy shit, this is actually happening right now.

I streak from my room, flying down the stairs to the front door before anyone else. "I got it!" My voice is hoarse and cracky as I practically shove Clarice out of the way. "I got it."

Clarice rolls her eyes at me with a disgruntled "whatever" and she stomps back into the kitchen where Mom's making the final preparations on our dinner for tonight. It's the first time she's cooked this big a meal since, like, four years ago and that only adds the pile of nervousness that is currently me.

My hand hesitates a single moment at the doorknob, fingers shaking before I gulp down the rising lump in my throat like the real macho man I am and pull the door open to a blast of cold late-October air. There are even a few trick-or-treaters out.

Marco's back is to me, hand scratching at the back of his neck awkwardly, and he gives me the most charming, tight-lipped smile topped with a crinkled nose when he finally turns to face me.

"I hope you realize I cut my hair for you."

I'm completely dazed when he breezes past me, the faintest hint of cologne filling my nostrils as I weakly shut the front door behind him, leaning against the frame for support as I eye him up. "You--"

"I clean up nice, don't I?" Marco sounds more than pleased with himself. As he should be.

His hair  _is_ cut, cropped short along the edges by his ears, the bright feathers behind his left ear gone. The straight tufts on his crown are parted right down the center, and I kind of understand the need for his usual get up. Marco looks at least three years younger with his hair in such a Buddy Holly-ish style, his eyes rounder and more youthful.

His piercings are gone, thats the next thing I notice, the scars above his eyebrow and the corner of his lip almost completely hidden amongst his generous adornment of freckles. And he's wearing a crisp metallic dress shirt crowned with a bloody red neck tie. A pair of sharp black slacks fitted almost _too_ well to his legs and shiny dress shoes of the same color bring his outfit to the nines, and it's oddly formal and casual at the same time. Holy  _shit_ he cleans up  _damn_ well.

My tongue is swollen and numb, the lump rising in my throat again for a different reason, and I can only stare at Marco with wide eyes. My expression is taken the wrong way as he looks worriedly down at himself. "I don't look bad, do I--?"

"No No!" I interrupt quickly, "You look--" I take a long, relieved breath, "--y-you look really nice."

Marco grins at me, coffee kernel eyes twinkling like the fucking Disney prince he is, and I lead him in the dining room. He drapes his jacket over the back of his seat, right of mine, and appraises the room like he hasn't been in here before. "Looks nice, Kirchstein," Marco comments offhandedly with a secret look in my direction.

"Mom's really into Halloween decor." I mutter, fiddling with one of the many plastic bats garnishing the table.

We stand there like a bunch of jackasses (what else is new) before I clear my throat. "D-do you wanna see the rest of the house before dinner?"

Marco smiles sweetly. "Sure, bro."

I take that comment with a grain of salt, making a face, and lead the way out of the dining room into the sitting area where we had our study session. I'm a lame host, but Marco's seen the place already, and he's a pretty good actor when he isn't being an ass.

"What a nice couch." Marco smiles at me and places a hand on the back cushion. "And so soft!"

My face burns shamefully and I grit my teeth. "Don't make it gay," I hiss.

Marco looks at me with his eyebrow cocked, adopting a look of pure innocence. "What's gay about admiring couches?"

I glare pointedly at him and he laughs.

Clarice pops into the room then, saving Marco from a nice tongue lashing, and brushes a stray piece of hair from her face. "Dinner's ready."

Marco follows behind me with a polite smile. "I don't think we've met; what's your name?" he asks and I turn to see him shaking hands with my (quite dazed-looking) sister.

Her face blooms a blotchy pink and Clarice stutters her name softly. She pulls her other hand behind her back, fingers knotting into the lacy fabric of her peach-colored shirt in a way that kind of gets on my nerves.

"That's a pretty name," Marco compliments, making Clarice smile. I narrow my eyes at her, then at Marco before catching myself and looking away. "I'm Marco."

"I-it's nice to meet you," Clarice says almost breathlessly, her hand still in Marco's.

 _Hands off,_ I think territorially,  _He was balls deep in_ me  _last week. I have first dibs._

But I can't say any of that because I have to act like I'm straight.

_Sigh._

"Well, we shouldn't keep everyone waiting," Marco grins and takes his hand back, giving me a sly, minute look that Clarice doesn't notice before letting her usher us back into the dining room with me on his heels. "It smells wonderful."

 _You sure know how to lay it on thick,_ I think broodingly and nearly jump out of my skin when I turn the corner into the dining room to the ungodly sight of Marco with his hand shaking my father's, a polite, confident smile playing casually at his lips. Holy shit. Holy  _shit_.

My throat lurches and I cover it up by clearing my throat and finding my seat. "D-Dad this is Marco Bodt." I introduce as casually as I can manage, gesturing to my not-boyfriend with my hand. "Marco, this is my dad, Robert Kirchstein."

My father squeezes Marco's hand roughly, and I can practically smell the testosterone in the air. The straightness he emits is suffocating at best. "Good to meet you, son." Dad says with a big, businessman smile that almost looks forced, I can't really tell. I think he does that--that tooth-bared grin that makes him look like a predator--in and attempt to scare people into submission. Sorry, buddy, but I don't think it's going to work too well on this particular specimen. "Jean here has told me so much about you."

My head snaps up and I look incredulously at Dad with an expression that bleeds  _What the fuck?_ I've told him about Marco exactly three times, and only one of which times did I actually _say_ anything about Marco, and it wasn't like I was  _pining_ or anything; I was telling him about a goddamn movie for crying out loud. But, alas, my offended look goes ignored as Dad continues to smile at Marco.

"Really," Marco grins and gives me a sly look, "I am pretty admirable, I suppose." Dad gives him his hand back with a laugh, and Marco sits next to me somehow still making that suddenly preying expression look completely heterosexual.

My tongue swells and I clear my throat, tearing my eyes away from him and pulling my hands into my lap. "S-so how was work today?" I look expectantly at my father, hoping my cheeks aren't as red as they feel. "Has that court case been cleaned up yet?"

Dad just sighs and his expression darkens. "No, I'm afraid not."

Marco perks up and sips from his glass. "Court case?" He clears his throat politely. "If you don't mind me asking..." 

He and my father start talking about...something. I don't really know, I'm all zoned out. It's fucking weird how fucking  _young_ Marco looks without his piercings. And his cropped hair adds to that weirdness. I do my best not to stare at his profile, but it's hard. And the could-be-but-probably-not accidental way his elbow brushes my arm as he stands when my mother comes back into the room with the final touches for dinner makes my heart fucking  _soar._ Who knew being straight could be so damn _hard_.

"What major have you chosen?" Dad asks after pouring himself a glass of red wine. He appraises Marco proudly, and I hope that means he likes him.

A carnal grin splits Marco's lips, and his eyes gleam with a years-old aspiration. "Aviation and Aerospace." I feel his foot move close and press gently onto my own, and my heart skips a beat.

Dad's eyebrows raise and he nods impressively, and the nervousness I was feeling earlier slowly, slowly starts to dissipate. "Really?" He nods again,  and methodically cuts a small piece of steak, mulling this over. "Military aircraft?"

Marco shakes his head, the smile still there. "Commercial."

That impressed look returns as Dad chews his steak. "Well, what made you choose airplanes, son?" His eyes narrow and I have to look away. I'm tearing a potato roll to bits and I mix it into my mashed potatoes, eating them together to hide the way my throat lurches each time I swallow.

"It's just something I've always thought about doing." Marco shrugs simply and takes a small bite of mashed potatoes before continuing. It takes me a moment to register that his hand is shaking just barely, unnoticeable to anyone not sitting right next to him. "I'm pretty good at math, and a teacher in high school suggested I take an introduction to Statistics my senior year." He shrugs again and pulls his hand into his lap, and I stare at his knee. That's shaking, too. 

"A mathematician," Dad says in the dadliest voice I've ever heard. "Well, how are you liking it so far?"

"Very much, sir." 

"And how are you enjoying Jean copying your notes in class?" Dad says jokingly, but a surge of embarrassment still flares up in my chest. He ignores the look I give him, looking only at Marco.

My cheeks burn angrily pink, especially now that Marco and I have actually had a tutoring session that ended in pretty amazing sex as a last resort to get me to focus, but I only stare at my plate. I'm  _not_ going to make a scene. 

"Actually," I feel the reassuring pressure of Marco's foot on mine, but the slight frown stays on my lips as I stare at his still shaking hand. "I've copied more times from Jean's notes than the other way around." Marco lies blatantly. "My specialty is test-taking, not noting-taking. He's saved my skin  _many_  times this semester."

 _I appreciate the effort, buddy, but you can't lie to me._ I think bitterly, and stay silent.

"Oh, no need to be modest, Marco." Dad says and gazes at me once. "We all know my son is no math whiz. He's an _artist_." And the way he calls me an  _artist_ makes my chest concave, makes my lungs drop down to my liver, and I have to hold my breath to keep from gasping aloud. He says it like I'm some freak hippy with long, stringy hair and incense burning in my room. It makes my throat hurt and my eyes burn for the smallest fraction of a second. 

I don't look up from my plate, eating half-heartedly and totally not hungry. I keep swallowing, to keep my breathing regulated, and blink a few times to take the burning in my eyes away.

"It isn't modesty, Mr. Kirchstein." Marco says politely, but firmly, and his foot pressing into mine again, tougher than ever. "It's the truth. And I would actually kill to be as talented an artist as Jean." His knee is shaking again, and it's distracting as fuck.

"Excuse me," I mumble and get up from my seat before anyone can say anything. The kitchen is my refuge as I rummage through the fridge for what feels like forever until I find it. 

"Fucking asshole insulting his own damn kid in front of everybody like it's funny." I mutter to myself and put three cans of Coke on the table, closing the fridge with my foot. "I hope you choke on your fucking peas, you creep." 

I take the Cokes back into the dining room, handing one to Clarice and Marco each without a word, and crack mine open loudly. Mom gives me a pained look like how  _dare_ I bring something so  _casual_ as  _soda_ to the dinner table with someone so  _professional_ as _Marco_ sitting right next to me. Lady, if you only knew. I decide to at least humor her a little, and pour my Coke into a wine glass.

Dad and Marco are still talking, and though the subject has changed, I can sense the impatience in the way Marco holds his shoulders. His muscles are tight under his shirt, his knee shaking still, and the genuine happiness is looking a  _little_ forced. I take the opportunity of him talking about something or other to crack open his drink and pour it for him silently.

"My older brother is a musician," Marco says, "and he's very good at what he does, and I respect him for putting so much time into something he loves doing."

"Music is different than art." Dad argues, but there is no malice. He speaks casually like it's playful banter between close friends.

"Music _is_ art."

Dad grins, "But what kind of profession could an artist like Jean get compared to a renowned musician?" He challenges.

Marco thinks it over for a moment, and sips his Coke. The shaking in his hands goes down significantly after only a few seconds. "You said you owned the power plant at the point of the mountain." He says slowly, and Dad nods. "If you take any marketing class, one thing professors will pound into you--"  _like the way you pounded me last week (_ _wink wink)_ "--is that businesses do significantly better if their buildings and products are attractive. Just hanging a few art pieces in an office brightens the mood and improves the working efficiency. Even _crime_ rates go down in an attractive city." Marco shrugs, "Artists can get plenty of commissions from business owners to add certain aesthetic to their headquarters. If they're good enough, they can make a name for themselves and make just as much money as anyone else."

"You seem to be a very well learned young man, Marco," Mom pipes up from her plate in an attempt to clear the atmosphere. It works for a while, enough for my cheeks to lose their color, but I spot Dad still mulling it over on his side of the table. The doorbell rings and Clarice shoots up from her seat without a word, practically running for the front door to hand out candy. There is no doubt in the air that Mom and I both wish we were in her shoes right now. 

Marco's shoulders loosen as he appraises my mom, smiling slightly. "Thank you, Mrs. Kirchstein." He looks regretfully at his hands, "I'm afraid I like to argue sometimes. I'm sorry."

"Ha!" Dad laughs and I jump in my seat, utensils clinking together and against my plate. "No need to apologize, son! It's good to have someone to fight with,"--I exchange a certain, secret look with Mom--"I like hearing other's opinions."

"Yes, well," Marco chews his lip, and the pressure of his foot on mine is gone for a moment, "I'm sure I could have been a bit more eloquent in my delivery."

"We aren't a family of eloquence," I finally pitch in, saving him from stumbling through such a fake apology. "We're blunt. No need for sugarcoating."

Clarice meanders back into the room again and sits down without a word, though she doesn't look as somber as before. She even makes eye contact. Good for her. "Yeah, Jean here's the king of blunt force trauma." He smirks into her glass. "He had a couple of incidents with baseball bats as a kid."

Marco, who was also taking a drink from his soda glass, snorts loudly, choking on laughter and shrinking away to keep from doing something gross. He manages to swallow, and laughs, wiping at his mouth. The sound is alive and sincere and the loudest thing at the table. It's absolutely stunning the way his cheeks bloom a soft pink, and I'm not the only one who notices the dramatic lift in the atmosphere.

"Clarice Louise!" Mom hisses at her daughter and swats her with a napkin, but a smile quivers fragilely at her lips. She tries to fight it, but in vain. "That isn't very polite," Her small voice shakes and her neck blotches red before she, too, laughs shortly.

It's not that I'm okay with people laughing at my expense. I'm really not at all, but I can't help scoffing as well, elbowing Marco in the side and covering my mouth. I spot a tight smile on Dad's lips and I'm not entirely positive if it's forced or not. The relentless knot that is my stomach slowly loosens as I snicker, and the tense atmosphere (at least, that's how it felt to me) dissipates.

I don't remember the last time my family laughed like this. I mean, it's not like we're broken, but with Dad gone, me in class, Mom at the country club and Clarice being more partial to her friends, the only time we really eat together is when it's absolutely mandatory. Meaning, when Dad has a business party and the house is teeming with all of his coworkers and their families. Not exactly what one would count as a family function. And when the once in a blue moon opportunity does arise that we are sitting like we are currently, together as a whole family, a cloud of awkwardness picks at the seams until someone finally leaves and the family image is shattered once again.

Fortunately for all of us, the air stays like that the rest of the night. All through dessert and casual banter, someone comes up with some funny story that they "just remembered to tell"  and we all have something to laugh about. The subject is quickly shifted away from me to save whats left of my ego. Clarice tells of an embarrassing story from last year when her friend, Hannah, made her laugh so hard milk came out of her nose during lunch and she had to go home to change her pants (this wheedled a barely-controlled, sympathetic laugh from Marco) and I narrow my eyes at the way her naturally-pink cheeks flush just a little brighter every time she looks my boyfriend's way before her eyes dart to another point in the room and she's silent for at least a minute before speaking again.

Mom tops Reese's story with one from her college days, before she met our father and she was working in a bakery and she came in one morning to find her coworker passed out on the floor and handcuffed to a table in the back room (he had pissed off his girlfriend or something and she laced his decaf with low-intensity sleeping agents as revenge). She reminisces the good ol' days with a wistful expression and a soft smile, and is politely silent at her end of the table after giving her two cents.

Amidst all the humor, Dad shares...political jokes. He's such an arrogant person I'm not sure he's even aware of his own ability to make mistakes, that or he's boring enough that he  _has_ no embarrassing tales to tell. Either is believable in its own way.

But I do think Marco's stories are the best. Sure, I'm biased as hell as he's probably my favorite person sitting at the table--even if he looks pretty dang  _odd_ without his usual getup. I think, though, it's the way he tells stories, giving just enough exposition to give us something to munch on before he gets to the real plot, but not so much that we don't know where he's going. Also chocolate voice, mm _mmm,_ boy can  _speak._

"I'm the second oldest of my siblings, and there's only a three year difference between me and my brother Sebastian." Marco begins with a soft grin. "It was just the two of us for five years, and when we finally got another addition to the family, it was a girl so we didn't really know where to go from there." His hands have long since stopped shaking, but he still takes small, precarious sips of soda every few minutes to keep it that way. I keep an eye on his glass and make sure it doesn't get too low, just in case. "I was always trying to impress Sebastian because it's no fun hanging out with someone so much younger than you who isn't into the same things as you, so we got into a lot of trouble together." Marco grins again and shakes his head vaguely. "But the best memory I have with my older brother was the week of his thirteenth birthday one summer."

"A little background for this, I guess, is my family is a bunch of cowboys. I'm from way back in Jinae on the other side of the eastern mountains. There was a rodeo that weekend, and Sebastian was signed up for the junior steer wrestling. I had  _begged_ to be signed up as well, but was saddled with mutton bustin' instead."

My eyebrows furrow at that.  _Wait a second._ I glance up at Marco with a quizzical expression. " _Mutton_ busting? Like sheep?"

Marco quirks an eyebrow deviously at me. " _Exactly_ like sheep." He tunes back in, and holy shit I'm so engrossed now. Marco riding a fucking sheep like something straight out of  _Lassie_. What a hick. "I was pretty small for my age, and I hadn't hit a growth spurt yet, so I was still eligible for the running, and, uh, Sebastian thought he'd have a little fun with it.

"The thing about mutton bustin' is there isn't a harness to hold on to, you're just supposed to tangle your fingers into the sheep's wool and hope like hell you don't get kicked in the face." Marco slowly clenches his fists in front of himself, imitating his long fingers snarling into fur, "I didn't know any of this, I didn't think I needed it, but big brother Stan was there right behind me to kindly show me the ropes." The grin turns rueful. "He, uh," Marco's voice shakes as he tries in vain to keep from laughing, and it makes the story all the funnier, "he tied the harness around my ankle."

The whole table breaks out into short snickers that quickly die down as Marco continues, regaining his composure. A single glance around the dining table shows Mom, Clarice,  _and_ Dad leaning forward just slightly over their food to listen to Marco, and a surge of pride blooms in my chest for him.

"I don't know what the thing is about seeing your sibling being drug through the dirt that gives thirteen year-olds such _utter_ satisfaction, but I can't really say I blame him." Marco laughs good-naturedly, like it's the fondest memory he has. "It took our dad and two rodeo clowns to get that damn sheep to stop running, and even then I still had to be taken to the ER for a split lip and sprained knee."

A collective gasp passes over each of us for little ten year-old Marco's wellbeing, but the current, twenty-one year-old Marco ensures his safety with a breezy wave of his hand and a light smile. "Really the whole experience was pretty great. There was a news station there setting up to interview a few of the bull riders in the running to go on to regionals, and they got some of it on tape. It's a family tradition to play the video sometime during the holidays to keep the bad juju away."

Laughter erupts across the table, Mom grasping lightly at her chest to keep the sound soft and ladylike, but a few rather  _un_ ladylike gasps wheedle their sneaky way out of her grasp, and I snicker to myself. It's good to see her like that, with her guard safely down and genuinely enjoying herself unlike when she has to make polite smalltalk with impressive strangers on topics she knows only minor brass tacks about. It's good to see the atmosphere lifted as well. The air feels warmer in this giant house, and it's pretty great knowing I helped with part of that warmth.

* * *

"I think..." I muse, leaning out of the threshold with one hand gripping vehemently to the frame of the door, the other holding out a black plastic cauldron full of full-sized candy bars for a few trick-or-treaters to pick through as I stare up at Marco with his jacket looped over one arm. "I  _think_ tonight might be counted as a success. Maybe."

Marco grins sweetly, his dimples shadowed under the small light above the porch. "And if it isn't?" He asks, and his voice is as confident as mine that he's wrong. We totally killed it tonight.

The trick-or-treaters scurry away with their sweets (only  _one_ said 'thank you' the absolute  _heathens_ ) (and they took all the Twix bars). I curl my cauldron-holding arm back into my chest and peer into the shallow bowl for any surpassable sweets to appease my sudden sweet tooth, but there isn't anything particularly impressive left. "I guess it's a life of complete and total solitude for us then. The life of two hermit husbands with beards."

"I've been promoted to husband status?" Marco beams and I swear to god is eyes fucking  _twinkle_. I'm dating such a Disney prince.

I shrug impassively. I'm not huge on the idea of marriage at the moment, actually, but he doesn't have to know that right now. "I just said husband because it rhymed better than 'boyfriend'." I lean through the door again and slip the cauldron back inside before any more tiny Satans can tackle me for more candy, clapping my hands together to get fake dust off them. A small shiver shakes my shoulders with sharp claws and I grit my teeth together to keep them from audibly chattering. "So, what do you think of my lineage?" 

I pin Marco with a knowing look because I fucking  _know_ what he thinks of my family, I just do. My lips purse obnoxiously and jut my chin cheekily at him with half-lidded eyes and a stiff neck because  _holy shit it's cold out here_.

And Marco just stares amusingly down at me. "I like them." He states honestly, and a kind smile curls his lips upward slightly. "You're sister's got the same spunk as you, and though a giant ass he may be, you father isn't half bad."

The squalling sound I make in the back of my throat is completely unintentional. Completely. "You're such a liar." I scoff, staring out into the street at a few kids running with sagging pillowcases full of sugar. "You can take the man out of the ass, but you can't take the ass out of the man." One tiny ghost with a white painted face and black eyes stops on the tarmac to stare curiously at our house, but soon decides better than to abandon their group for another house with  _two_ shady guys standing outside making heart eyes at each other. Your fucking loss, kid; not only are Marco and I hot as hell and super nice, we're fucking  _schloaded_ with candy bars.

Well, Marco's super nice and I have the candy. It's a harmonious task requiring two.

Marco snorts loudly, putting a hand to his face and ducking the other way with a giant grin on his face. "That's true both metaphorically and literally."

I manage to keep a straight face as I nod along with him, still watching that tiny ghost trail timidly behind their friends as they all scope the neighborhood. "I like incorporating as many innuendos as possible into my speech." The trick-or-treating group of five, a party made of a patchy werewolf that howls instead of thanking people, a witch with a wide-brimmed hat and orange bottlebrush hair, our little ghost friend, and a zombie and mummy (the mummy has one of those kiddie leashes blended in with their bandages, and her zombie buddy holds the other end to keep her from wandering off) (it's actually hella cute) meanders around the corner, a few of them peering into their treat bags to see what goodies they've gotten thus far, and the street is silent for the first time tonight. In a couple of minutes the porch lights will start going out and Halloween will be over once again.

"Really, Jean." Marco insists gently, bringing me back to the present. "Your family is pretty cool." I'm sure he isn't lying, Marco doesn't seem like the type to lie for anyone's benefit, but he also doesn't seem the type to dislike crowds of people so easily. I'm proof of that since I fucking  _puked_ on him when we first  _met_.

I scoff at him with my fingers jammed into my armpits to keep them warm. "Says the gay cowboy with a fear of fucking  _sheep_." I drawl jokingly. Cowboys are hot, and now that Marco's pointed it out and the piercings are gone from his face, I can see the country in his features. He's pretty built like a farm worker, with broad shoulders and strong arms and everything, and the image of him all sweaty in a rancher's hat is enough to make my knees weak.

"I'm not afraid of sheep," Marco mutters lowly, and leans a little closer to me, eyes half-lidded and burning. "I actually have a soft spot for them. With the snowy wool," one hand raises to brush gently the hair by my ears, and trails around my earlobe before tracing up the line of my jaw. Two fingers tilt my chin up to Marco's eyes, "Their soft faces..." Marco's lips press to mine, his neck arcing down at such an angle that someone from far enough away might think we just had our foreheads pressed together for a friendly pep talk or something. We don't kiss long, barely a few seconds, and completely silent. When Marco pulls away again, the same gentle smile planted firm on his handsome face, his cheeks are colored a soft, breathtaking pink. "Goodnight, little lamb."

I find my voice faster than I thought I would. "Goodnight, big bad wolf." I smirk, though I'm positive my own face is the same color as his. "Drive safe."

"Always do," Marco calls and backs away to Eren's jeep.

"Wear your fucking seatbelt!" I order loudly from across the yard, a sardonic smirk planted firmly on my mouth. "Don't speed!" Marco salutes to me and I step forward a little, putting one hand over my mouth, "And please, for the love of god, don't run over any kids tonight!"

"Honestly, you make me out to be some felon," Marco replies snidely and slides into the car, waving and honking once before whipping the jeep around and driving away. The break lights are the last thing I see from him, turning the corner and making his way out of the gated community before I shiver again and go back inside. For once I'm a little grateful for the cold so I have an excuse for why my cheeks are so bright closing the door.

"What a nice young man," Mom invites conversationally as I wander into the kitchen with a few plates and a leftover glass of water to take to the sink for cleaning. I gaze up at her casually, feigning minute surprise. "I think you should keep Marco around. He seems like a good kid."

I nod along with her. "Yeah, he is." I agree solemnly, but on the inside, I'm fist-pumping into oblivion.

* * *

The piercings are back, the Doc Martens laced up under a pair of black jeans with holes in the knees crowned with a denim vest and grey tee on Monday, and the pungent smell of anarchy and badassery surrounds Marco's entire persona despite his faux-hawk being at least an inch shorter and the feather extensions still gone from behind his ear. And, man, I couldn't be happier. It was weird seeing Marco so...normal looking. He does it almost  _too_ well for my tastes, and I like to think it made him just as uncomfortable as me.

"How many kids did you run over on the way home Saturday night?" I ask sarcastically over lunch, right after Marco's taken his insulin. "And be honest." I peel the wrapping from my sandwich back and take a bite, wiping the corner of my mouth with my thumb. The cafeteria is loud today, full of students buzzing about their scores from midterms and generally just riled up about the weather. Yeah,  _the weather_ is making people excited. Apparently we're getting snow early this year.

The playful glare Marco throws my way makes my grin stretch wider and I wiggle my eyebrows at him. Marco returns his black insulin bag to the front pocket of his backpack before speaking, and I must say, I'm not disappointed. "Well, I didn't run over any  _kids_ , but I did nail a couple of zombies here and there. Got one mounted on the hood of Eren's car if you want to see it later?" His eyes flash humorously, his head cocked to one side as Marco grins innocently at me.

I smirk over my food, grabbing my soda and taking a swig to wash down the sticky taste of ham and mustard and bread. "Har har." I mock and suck a stray piece of meat from between my teeth. "How did Eren react to your new style?"

Marco grins as he twists the cap off a bottle of orange juice. "Not near as colorful as yours, I must say." He sighs whimsically, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips and he takes a drink. "But he did have to take a picture to prove to his future self it wasn't just a dream."

"I still have to give him Armin's number."

Marco makes a face, "Why would you do that?"

"Because they're so fucking  _gay_ for each other!" I groan exasperatedly, throwing my head back. "They're competing with  _me!"_

"That's pretty gay."

I throw my hands up dramatically, "I know!"

"I thought your whole life purpose was to be the gayest person in the room?" Marco wonders aloud and sits back in his chair, the plastic squeaking under his weight. "Why jeopardize your plans getting them together?" 

"The sexual tension between those two dweebs is palpable." I wave dismissively, taking up my sandwich again and ripping off a bite, chewing in an annoyed manner. A glob of mustard almost drips onto my pants, but I catch it in the nick of time, wiping my now yellow-stained finger on a napkin. "And I'm sick of being an errand boy between them. If they want to be awkward together in their own time, be my fucking guest." My sandwich is torn in half then, because I do my best to save the crust for last, and I lay one half back on the table between Marco and I, munching thoughtfully.

Marco takes the opportunity to snag my other sandwich half and take a giant bite from it, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and smiling sweetly at me. "They were pretty lovestruck, huh? I thought it was just me."

 

I pull out my phone on the train ride home, setting my feet on the seat in front of me in a defiant "fuck you" to the sign above me. The train is surprisingly vacant today, not that I notice much, and the person sitting across and one seat up from me follows my lead, kicking up their feet as well and pulling a book to read from  their bag. Yeah, person, stick it to the man!

_**To: Armin** _

_would you get mad if i gave eren your digits?_

I pocket my phone with a sigh, resting my head back and staring out the crummy, scratched window of the train, staring out at the traffic we pass and the dark clouds hanging heavy on the few skyscrapers in town as we whizz past. I pick absently at my nails, shaking my ankle to an unheard, unknown tune playing in my head as I wait for Armin to answer. I'd forgotten he has classes today and wonder very briefly if I've interrupted his ferocious studying. But the feeling passes when my phone buzzes softly.

_**From: Armin** _

_That's okay! I was wanting to speak to him again anyway!_

I smile at the seemingly innocent reply, and my phone chimes a second time.

**_From: Armin_ **

_This is kind of a weird question, but do you think Eren would be creeped out if I asked him out?_

Oh, my _god_. Houston, we have made contact, I repeat, we have made contact. I can't help the cheesy grin splitting my lips at that. Holy shit, this is like playing matchmaker with two loaded pawns. You're welcome, my child, enjoy your new punk-y boyfriend.

**_To: Armin_ **

_well you've already slept together_

**_To: Armin_ **

_don't think it can get any creepier than that_

The train jingles and my stop is announced over the grainy intercom, sending me to my feet and I shuffle to the door, not really paying attention where I'm walking. I told you; I'm a bad example. Rearranging the twisted strap of my bag on my shoulder, I cross the street, actually looking up for passing cars before my attention is sucked back to my phone's screen. Another message pops up, just as I make it to the gated community.

**_From: Armin_ **

_I'm serious, Jean. I like him a lot, and don't want to come off as weird._

**_To: Armin_ **

_dude its fine i doubt eren'll even mind._

**_To: Armin_ **

_he was practically doin back flips the last time i saw him_

I toss my backpack to the deep and forgotten recesses of my bedroom, kicking off my shoes and burrowing deep into my sheets to get my hands warmed up again. I lay there in the dark for a moment, shivering to myself until my phone buzzes again.

**_From: Armin_ **

_I just want to be sure..._

_Oh, my **god** ,_ I roll my eyes, unfortunately knowing exactly which part of his brain this is coming from. The same place the reason he hasn't transitioned comes from, why he chose a new name so close to his original. It comes from the same part of his brain that controls why he distracts himself with studying instead of socializing. I press the blue _call_ button before I think, and have my phone to my face before I can _start_ to stop myself, sitting up in bed and frowning to myself.

Armin answers after three solid rings, and his voice is hesitant and small. "Jean, I--"

"Eren's got blue balls for you, dude!" I practically sing into the receiver. "He's been harping me to ask you out for him for the past week, and he is so incredibly  _entranced_ by your nerd-boy ways, it's making me sick to look at him! Now you get your skinny-ass hinny down to his tattoo shop _this instant_ and put an end to his constant pining already, you merciless heartbreaker." I huff, slapping my hand on my knee, fighting the smile creeping over my lips.

Armin's silent on the other end for a long time before he finally seems to get wind of what I'm actually saying. "Oh," he stutters, "O-oh! Seriously?" I can hear the surprised smile in Armin's voice, the way he keeps his tone controlled to keep his voice from shaking too much. "Okay! I'll do that now!" He sounds so unbelievably happy, I could hug him right through the phone. "D-do you know the address?"

I give Armin his man's information, wishing him luck he won't need, and hang up feeling a great satisfaction pricking at my chest. The ceiling seems to stretch upward as I lay back on the mattress, and I release a great sigh of relief before pulling out my phone again and dialing another number.

"Hello?" 

"Guess who just so happens to be the best wingman  _ever_." I grin triumphantly up at the ceiling. "Armin's on his way to the tattoo parlor right now to ask Eren out."

I hear Marco laugh on the other end, "Seriously?"

"Consider this mine and Eren's first mark of true friendship."

"Aw, how cute. I'll get the scrapbook ready."

I make a face at the ceiling, but smirk. "Hardy-har, very funny."

There's a casually break in conversation, a happy pause on my part, and Marco takes the opportunity to change the subject. "I was...actually meaning to call you today; to ask a favor."

"Oh, not _you_ , too," I groan playfully. "I'm sick of playing errand boy."

"It's nothing like that," Marco laughs on the other line. "Though, you may have to put your acting skills to use. I was wondering if you wanted to go with me to a family function,"

"What kind of family function?" I ask cautiously. If it's some kind of hurting trip where I have to trudge through the mud in search of a fucking rabbit, I swear to god.

I hear the shrug in Marco's voice. "A baptism for my little sister and brother."

"Baptism," I mull the word over, tasting it, "that's like a christening, right?" Who'd've thunk Marco was Christian. It's almost as unsurprising as it isn't.

"Of sorts," Marco agrees, "Uh...they're eight, though."

"I thought people got baptized as babies."

Marco laughs, and I hear a slight catch in his voice. "If you're Catholic,"

"Are you Catholic?"

"Oh,  _god_ no," Marco seethes.

I roll my eyes to the ceiling, sighting greatly. "Well, what are you, then?"

"Uh..." Marco chews over something, and I hear him mutter something under his breath. "I...My family's Mormon." Something crinkles over the mouthpiece then, Marco coughing awkwardly.

The first thing that comes to my head is some old guy with four wives in Amish wear and french braids. Then I think of two little kids, eight year-olds, being dunked in a freezing pond for some religious ceremony with Marco and I standing at the banks with his giant family and my stomach twists just a little. " _Mormon_?"

Marco's voice sounds as hesitant as I feel. "Yeah." He steels himself enough to talk like a regular person, no longer pussy-footing around and getting right to the point. "So, do you want to go with me to Jinae country?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sweats nervously*
> 
> yes this is one of those fics
> 
> Prepare to meet more of the Bodt squad, older brothers and rebellious sisters included.


	8. Strong Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jean takes care of his sick bf and does cute domestic stuff bc i'm a self-indulgent piece of garbage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao this is first draft i sincerely apologize

I'm silent for a long time, my tongue feeling fat and lumpy in my mouth as I swallow Marco's information, and the moment I speak I wish I could eat my own fucking words.

"You're a polygamist?"

The sigh of disgust that passes from Marco's line to mine only confuses me more. "No, I'm not a polygamist, Jean. I'm not Mormon, either. My family is."

"So...you're family are polygamists,"

"Oh, my god." Another sigh, this one a little more controlled. "Mormons don't practice plural marriage anymore, Jean." Marco says into the phone tiredly. "That was abolished a long time ago." 

"Wait, are Mormons the ones that, like, abhor Halloween or something? Like, they call it Satan's birthday or something like that?"

"No, they don't. They're the ones with temples everywhere."

"What?"

"Temples. There's one in Utah that kind of looks like a castle; I'm sure you've seen it at least once."

I still don't know what the hell he's talking about, I've never been to Utah and don't have plans to  _ever_ go, but, whatever. I don't want to sound like a moron, either, so I just play along and hope he doesn't ask me any questions. "Okay, subject change! What was this about a family reunion? Where is it? When?"

I can almost hear the relieved way Marco's shoulders slump, and he breathes a sigh into the receiver. "My family is having a small reunion in two weeks, for my brother and sister's eighth birthday. It's kind of a big deal, and I was  _wondering_ if you wanted to come with me."

"I won't have to ditch my phone and car will I?"

"Jean!" It would probably be fitting to imagine Marco smacking himself in the face right then, "For God's sake, they aren't  _Amish_. You can keep your phone. If anything you just have to watch your mouth around the kids."

My head snaps up at that, and I make a nasty face. " _Kids? What_ kids?" The first thing that comes to my head after a scene from  _Little House on the_ _Prairie_ is a bunch of screaming, snot-nosed cretans bursting from a tiny house, one of them clutching to my pant leg with chubby, sticky fingers, and another drool down my shirt and trying to touch my face with even  _more_ sticky hands of an unknown origin. It makes me shudder and cringe just thinking about it. "I ain't babysitting, Marco," I warn him.

A joking tone responds, and I can hear the grin in Marco's voice, "Did I say you were going to babysit? You're just a visitor; at most you'll have to hold a baby for a few minutes." There's a short silence. "Believe me, I want to go just as much as you." Marco mutters darkly.

"Then why  _are_ you going? You could come up with some excuse, I'm sure."

Another silence, and Marco's voice almost sounds strained when he says, "I have family obligations. I have to go."

I chew my thumbnail, pushing awkwardly at my bedspread and rearranging my legs, "How many people are in your family, anyway?"

"Eight," Marco says, and do I hear a tone of embarrassment? "Mom and Dad and six kids."

" _Six?_ " I ask incredulously. "You have  _six_ siblings?" Holy shit, what are these people doing when they aren't getting knocked up?

"I have five siblings, actually."

"What number are you?"

"Two."

"Jesus Christ," I swear, shaking my head. "You must've had fun as a kid." I add sardonically, smirking to myself.

"So do you wanna go?" I can't tell Marco's emotions from the way he says it. It's bordering on impatient, but I'm not sure if it's solely because of the subject change. "I gotta RSVP ahead of time so we know where we're sleeping."

"Hold on, one more question," Holding up a finger, I waggle it in front of me a little. "Does your family know about your sex life. Or your relationship status at that?" My tone isn't accusatory, I make sure of it, but I can't help the wolfish grin that spreads over my face.

Marco hesitates, so long I'm not sure he's going to answer, but then he does. "...My parents do. And Sebastien and my oldest sister, but the rest don't."

"So we'll be playing hetero again?"

"We'll be playing hetero again," Marco confirms with a sigh. "Uh. I hope there isn't a problem with that. It's just hard to explain to the kids after they've been taught for so long..." He trails off, for a long time actually, and his tone changes when he speaks again, his voice subdued, somber almost. "I feel kind of fake asking you to do this for me."

I wave him off, scoffing loudly into the phone. "No biggie. I did the same thing, you deserve to get a little payback."

"But this will be for an entire weekend, Jean."

"A  _weekend_?"

Marco sighs on the other end of the phone, not impatiently like the last time. "Okay, just forget it. I'm sorry, Jean." And he really does sound apologetic, probably for the first time since I've met him, before hanging up the line and leaving me with the dial-up tone beeping obnoxiously in my ear.

I pull my dark phone screen away from my ear and stare at it for a long time. My room is quiet for a lot longer than I'd like to admit before I click my phone on again and open my messages.

**_To: Marco_ **

_I'm going with you_

There's only a slight moment's hesitation as I type another.

**_To: Marco_ **

_but i don't know shit about this. you're gonna have to teach me something_.

And I set my phone face down, settling back on my pillows to lay in wait for his response.

* * *

The amount of time it takes for Marco to reply sets a record in Fucking Slowness. And even then it takes ten minutes to finally convince him that when I say I'm going to meet his freaky religious family, I'm meeting his freaky religious family and that's final. Don't test me, Bodt, I've got political stubbornness on my side and I'll fight dirty if I have to.

We're scheduled to leave (taking Eren's car, of course) the day winter break starts. It's a fucking two day drive to Jinae, and another eight-fucking-hour drive to the tiny as fuck, podunk  _village_ that is Marco's fucking stomping grounds. Seriously, shit's tiny as balls.

And that brings me to another thing:

"You can't keep swearing like this, Jean." Marco harrows me for the umpteenth time at lunch one day in the middle of November. "You're going to be around a lot of children.  _Mormon_ children from a small town."

I throw my head back into my seat a little too hard and groan, "Fuck  _me_."

"Jean."

"I'm getting it all out while I can." I defend, looking up at him and scowling non-threateningly. "I have a daily cuss quota to fill, Marco. I can't just bottle this shit up for a month and hope for the best while hangin' with your heathen babies." That earns me an unimpressed look. "Sorry."

And, while I'm looking at Marco, I notice another thing. He looks awful. Like, genuinely shoot-me-in-the-fucking-head-I'm-fucking-tired awful. His skin is uncharacteristically lackluster, weather-cracked lips pulled into a tight, stressed line, and the skin around his eyes is dangerously darker than the rest of his face. He even looks thinner, no longer strong-man tall, but slightly hunched over like he hasn't slept since the night of our dinner.

He's starting to look more like me, and god knows that can't be healthy for him.

"Are you all right, dude?" I ask, leaning forward and pulling my feet down from their resting place on top of the table between us. "You look like shit."

Marco's eyes droop a little and he looks away, burrowing his chin into the red scarf he's wearing. "I feel like shit, too." I notice his septum ring it brightly missing from his rosy, runny nose. "I got sick over the weekend."

"What the fuck are you doing in school then, fucknuts?" I demand of him a little too loudly, and Marco flinches, his eyes flitting away from mine. I lower my voice, "You should be home sleeping."

"I can't miss class, Jean." Marco mutters, and sits up straighter in an attempt to fool me of his health. His pale face gives him away, "I'm too busy between work and getting everything planned for the reunion to get caught up on homework on top of it. Really, I'm fine." Marco shrugs his shoulders and slouches back in his seat, his chin remaining firmly planted in the nook of the scarf around his neck. "'M just stressed is all."

"I'm taking you home." I insist and push up from my seat. Marco's food has gone mostly untouched, the only thing he really goes back to is a small bottle of orange juice. I push it toward him and toss over an unopened bag of chips. "Take these."

"What about the Duke?" Marco asks halfheartedly. The tired way he's flopped in his chair, his loose muscles, and his nearly inaudible voice has me guessing the hardest thing about getting him home is getting him to stand from his seat. And convincing him that I'm serious about taking him home right now. 

I scoff at him and clear away my food, piling everything in a precarious pyramid of crinkly paper on my plate and dumping it all in the garbage. "I know you care too much about that to drive it in this weather. You rode the train today."

Marco pauses a moment. "What about your art class?" 

I roll my eyes. "Art schmart," I wave a hand flippantly in the air, holding the other for Marco to take. He doesn't. "I'm more concerned about my favorite Bae's health at the moment. I won't get anything done in there, anyway."

Marco still eyes my hand wearily, but I can see defeat slowly taking hold of him, crawling over his face like the pallor of his sickly skin. "You're going to fail."

"I was born to fail. No use fightin' it if it's written in the stars," I wave again with a snarky grin before snagging Marco by the wrist and tugging him. "C'mon, buddy, let's go."

Marco shrinks into his seat further, slouching back like a slug and his bottom lip puckers. "But it's cold outside, Jean."

"I'll get you a nice warm blanket and a bowl of soup," I promise and tug again on his sleeve. "Now, stand your fine ass  _up_ "--I pull Marco's arm hard enough that he has to lean forward over his knees--"I'll carry your backpack and hold your hand while we cross the street, but I'm taking you  _home_.  _ **Now**_."

A small whine is the only thing I get from Marco before he's over his baby fit and bracing himself to stand. He sways in a way that really makes me nervous, so I link one arm through his and lace our fingers together as I guide him out of the dining hall.

The air is cold and picky outside when we shoulder through the glass-panel doors, but the wind is merciful. I feel the pressure of Marco's head tilted against mine as we tug across campus to the small bus stop at the intersection in front of the Math and Science building. He feels too warm, clammy, and I squeeze his hand reassuringly.

Marco's breathing isn't exactly labored when he stops in his tracks, refusing to be moved, but his skin is paler than before. "Hold on a sec," 

And then Marco promptly leans over to the garbage can to his left, takes off the lid, and vomits loudly into the bin, one hand pressed to the hanging tails of his scarf to keep them out of the blast zone. 

"Marco?!" I scramble back to him, hovering uselessly around the garbage bin like a fucking mama bird as he upchucks the limited food he'd eaten earlier. "Hey," Laying my hand on his back and stooping down close to his ear as he spits in the can, I swallow the gag building in my throat at the sound of his puke splattering the bottom of the garbage echoing in my ears. "Hey, are you okay?"

Marco keeps his head in the garbage can, but doesn't vomit again. "I gotta go home," he says weakly and spits again.

There are people staring at him hunched over the garbage and I fucking dare any one of them to say something. I pin one particularly judge mental-looking asshole with my most venomous glare after he sizes Marco up on his way to the Math and Science building, and he's at least smart enough to avert his eyes before I pluck them out with my fucking fingers.

Marco hunches even more than before as we walk, and his skin looks like wet parchment. He niches his mouth and nose in his scarf to mask his vomit breath and wipes once at his watery eyes when we make it to the bus stop, keeping his head down and his hands stiffly in his pockets.

It's the most miserable I've ever seen him and I set down the juice and chips I'd saved him in favor of scouring through the front pockets of my backpack until I find a long-forgotten tin of cinnamon Altoids and offer them over to him. "Here," I tap him in the side of the arm with the tin and shake it enough that it rattles with the mints still inside.

Marco jumps a little and gives me a look before mildly glimpsing down at the token. He stares at them for a short moment. "Thanks," Marco finally takes the Altoids from me and I notice his hands are shaking just barely. 

The silence that hangs between the two of us is as visible as the grey puffs of smoke ghosting from our lips with each breath. It's like that until the bus arrives, until Marco grabs my hand in his and boards with me in tow right behind him and we find two empty seats right across from each other. The somber look Marco's had all day is still there as we make our way to the train station, but a lingering relief is visible right under the surface as Marco sucks on two Altoids and gazes out the window with his hand still laced with mine across his lap.

His hand is warm and sweaty but I don't really mind. It's just good to see he's looking a little better. I think puking was good for him, his skin doesn't look quite as pasty, and the Altoids seem to calm his stomach enough that he pops one in his mouth every couple of minutes.

"Thank you again for the mints, hun," Marco says in a stronger voice as we get off the bus and check the schedule for the next train. We have thirteen minutes. Bleh. "I'm feeling a lot better."

"You look a little better," I tell him truthfully and squeeze his hand on the bench. "And you're welcome, Puke-boy." I add sardonically and grin smugly up at him.

Marco looks pointedly unimpressed and that only makes we grin wider. He doesn't say anything, but I know he wants to and I respect him for holding his tongue to spare his idiot boyfriend. 

"I don't suppose you want to kiss this Puke-boy, huh?" Marco asks and quirks his eyebrow at me, the metal piercing barely visible under the brim of his beanie winking in the sun. Marco puckers his lips and leans toward me, but I refuse. That's gross.

I put my finger up just in time and block Marco's advances on me. "Not--" I grin teasingly up at him, "--until you've brushed your teeth, young man."

"Aw, what?" Marco grunts in disappointment and frowns, leaning away from my finger in his face. "Not even a little kiss?"

I waggle my finger strictly. "No."

"What about a kiss on the hand?" Marco brandishes our hands still tangled together and tilts them so my knuckles hover right next to his lips, but looks at me for permission.

"Mm," I narrow my eyes like I'm actually debating it when in reality I'm exploding on the inside. Even in depleted health he's hotter than sin and it isn't fair. "Just a small peck. Like a good lil' Mormon boy."

I smirk at Marco as he pulls a face but still presses a soft, chapped-lipped kiss to my knuckles. He lingers for a second, gently breathing warm air over the back of my hand before his eyes flash wolfishly up to me and his hand seizes mine in a vice grip. Next thing I know, Marco's got me yanked closer to him, one arm outstretched with my hand in his still so I can't pull away, and he plants me with a very passionate, very _slobbery_ kiss on the cheek.

"Ack!" I pull back with a completely dignified yowl of both surprise and disgust, wriggling my face back from his lips. " _Gross!_ " I growl, and try wrestling back from Marco, and a rueful giggle escapes me. At least he smells like Altoids.

Marco counteracts my struggles with his free arm wrapping lovingly tight around me and he tugs me closer again. "I  _love you, Jean._ " He croons with a bright grin and the hand that has my fingers still laced together with it wraps the other way around me. I'm practically on his lap, my arms knotted around me in a forced hug, and Marco's arms wrapped around mine. 

He's still smiling as he buries his face in the crook of my neck, his nose nuzzling my cold skin, and Marco holds me tight against him as he whispers into me.

_"I love you."_

And I can't help the stupid smile that breaks over my lips at the same time as the fire caught under my skin flares up into my cheeks.

* * *

Marco sits next to me on the train huddled in the window seat, his warm hand still holding fast to mine, and traces small, nameless circles into my skin with his thumb. His face is still pale, his forehead still feverish, but his eyes don't look quite so tired. Well, I guess  _tired_ is the wrong word because he actually falls asleep on me, but he doesn't look quite so exhausted anymore.

I have to ignore the fact that he's more likely than not drooling in my hair at the moment because I can see his reflection through the crummy plexiglass of the train and he looks ways too  _cute._ And cute is a weird description to give a guy with his eyebrow pierced in two places wearing a blood red Anarchy T-shirt under my favorite peacoat and patten leather Doc Martens with black, hole-riddled jeans, but, oh my god does it work. Everything about Marco asleep like this is cute.

It breaks my heart when I have to wake him.

"Marco," I gently nudge him in the arm with my elbow, but he doesn't stir. "Hey, Marco, heeeeeeeey."

The only thing I get in response is his hand weakly squeezing mine.

"We're almost to our stop, buddy." I whisper up at him.

Aside from his faint snoring, Marco is silent.

"Come on," I nudge him again, a little harder. "Wake up, sleepyhead," Squeezing Marco's hand, I shake my head a little so he can't rest his head on me anymore.

"Jeaaaaaaaan," Marco groans, and his head lolls to the side, "fu-UCK!" He falls into a horrendous coughing fit, one of those ones that make it sound like his lungs'll explode right out of him, and leans away from me to save me from the onslaught. His eyes water, chest convulsing, and we attract the few other eyes on the train. 

Marco recovers quick enough from his near death, leaning his head against the window with a faint groan, looking out the foggy plexiglass with bleary eyes. "'Can't wait to get to bed." He rasps.

His wish is fulfilled in five minutes when the train decelerates and our stop is announced. I lead him by the hand outside, careful not to walk too fast or stray too far ahead of him. I'm certain we look like quite the motley crew at the bus station, with me holding Marco's hand like a harried goose and Marco sniveling and grumbling groggily behind me with his red scarf pulled over his mouth and nose. God, he really does look like shit.

We don't talk at all on the bus, mostly because I'm scared if Marco makes anymore noise he'll hack up a lung right there, and he has this slightly delirious look in his sleepy eyes that screams he's on the brink of passing out or vomiting again. He holds my hand as we walk the short distance from the stop we're dropped at and it's the little reassurance to me that he hasn't gone completely loopy.

" _Home_ ," Marco sighs after we round the bend to his and Eren's granny house, trudging ahead of me through the stiff grass and fishing his keys from his pocket. He fumbles weakly with getting his key in the deadbolt, but, alas, the poor thing finally has his door unlocked and drops his shit right in the walkway, stomping downstairs in the direction of his room and forgetting his keys in the lock.

It's kind of funny seeing him like this. Usually Marco's the one who keeps his head level while I'm acting childish, and now here we are with me trailing after him, pulling his forgotten keys from the deadbolt, closing the front door so he doesn't freeze in his sleep, and sliding his bag to the wall with my foot so the next person to get home doesn't trip and die.

I find Marco passed out on his bed, still fully clothed, legs hanging off the edge like he was tossed there like a rag doll. He has one arm pillowed under him, his shirt riding up a little to expose a small band of skin right at the small of his back. His breathing is slow and even, but I don't think even he could fall asleep that fast. I slink up to the foot of his bed to investigate, but Marco's face is hidden from my sight. Either way, asleep or not, he can't lay in bed with his shoes on like some animal, so I may as well help him out.

Picking the laces of Marco's boots is hard enough with them hanging at the angle they are, it doesn't help much when Marco flinches and just about kicks me in the fucking head.

"Dude, what the fuck! Watch it!" All I get is a half-hearted apology and Marco flopping his head the other way with a cough. He stays still long enough for me to finish with his shoes, and kicks them off smoothly as I crawl clumsily on the other side of him. "You want some soup or something?" I ask gently.

Marco is quiet for a long time, and I think he really has fallen asleep until I notice the slight shake of his head.

"I wanna sleep," He whines softly into his arm.

I can't help rolling my eyes at him, and pat him heartily in the arm. "'Shoulda thoughta that before when I offered you your food from lunch. You gotta eat somethin', dude."

Marco groans but doesn't move otherwise.

"Come on," I tease in my most goober-y voice and pat a nice rhythm on his arm. "I know you can do it! I believe in you!"

" _Jeaaaaaaan_ ," It's all muffled against Marco's arm, one hand swatting half-heartedly at me, and he curls in on himself. "Lemme  _sleep_ first."

"You'll slip into a coma,"

"I'm okay with that,"

I roll my eyes again. "No, you're not."

Marco groans for the third fucking time and I sigh. Had I the muscle power and motivation, I would just shove his sleepy ass out of bed, but I'm fairly positive that would be indicative of poking a sleeping bear, and don't feel like setting that wrath upon myself. Depleted health or no, Marco could kick my ass any day.

I roll off Marco's bed in one swift, smooth motion and make my way to the door.

The shuffling of fabric on fabric and then the soft croak of Marco's voice. "Don't  _leave_ ," he whimpers offendedly. 

"I'm not," I intone defensively and lift my hands placatingly, hanging in the door. Marco's lip is puckered out as he stares at me with the most hurt expression like kicked puppy, holy shit. "I'm going to make you something, ya big boob,"

"I'm not a boob," he scowls.

I roll my eyes and turn away, "We're a matching set." I call down the hall. "I'll be back in a sec."

Marco doesn't reply, or is too weak for me to hear, but either way, it's silent as I trudge up the stares into Eren's kitchen. I don't know if Eren himself is home--my guess is he's at the tattoo shop or school or somewhere pining over Armin, anywhere but here, and I navigate the kitchen like a kid lost in a Wal-mart super center.

Not that the kitchen is all that big. Mine is probably triple in size, but I swear to god neither Eren nor Marco have the term 'organization' in their repertoire. I find cream stored in the pantry next to a loaf of bread, a random fucking potato growing its own ecosystem, and some wooden skewers. Those savages. How have they avoided food poisoning or Salmonella all this time?

I open the fridge and a pack of dry noodles sits on the top shelf of the door like it belongs there. Two cartons of milk, one blatantly labeled 'FOR PANCAKES ONLY', coffee creamer. But, alas, no soup.

Cupboards above stove? An abandoned, unopened pack of gum, a few pans, a colander, and Bullion cubes. No soup.

Tiny cupboard with a double-tiered turntable under the counter? Some maple syrup, Pam spray, taco seasoning, more Bullion cubes, and other spices I don't care to name off. Still no soup to be found.

"Jesus Christ you guys," I mutter incredulously to myself and make a mental note to buy some real fucking groceries as a Christmas gift. "What do you eat? Dirt?"

I'm searching around the kitchen for another ten minutes before I finally spot a tiny, slightly dented can of tomato soup sandwiched between a large tin of oatmeal and the wall of the pantry. I don't exactly trust it, there's dust on the lid, but it doesn't expire for another year so I'm going out on a limb right now. I reason with myself that if I put enough cyan pepper and garlic in it'll cancel out any toxins. 

I'm even going for the Star Boyfriend award this time and make a grilled cheese sandwich like a little domestic. God, I'd be the cutest fucking housewife.

"Marco," I knock on the door and push it open with my foot. He's still knocked out cold with his red beanie and coat on. I don't even think he's moved since I left. But he's breathing, so I hang on to that. "Wake up, buddy."

His soup and sandwich go on the nightstand on the side of his bed, and I crouch by his face, blowing gently on his skin. 

"Marco," I whisper, and brush my index, feather-light, down the straight bridge of his nose.

His eyes flinch and he tucks his chin behind his arm, snoring lightly, but doesn't respond.

"Hey, punk-y," I pinch Marco's nose lightly between my thumb and index until he flinches away again, one hand languidly reaching up and grabbing me by the wrist. "Wake uuuuup." A bright, swift kiss on his shiny red nose and Marco squeezes his eyes shut a few seconds before they slowly, oh so slowly, slide open halfway.

I rest my chin on the small space of mattress next to Marco's arm and pull my hand so my wrist slips from between his fingers and my hand presses to his. "Hey," I whisper in a low voice.

Marco's hooded eyes are still dull, but the ghost of a smile plays at the corners of his mouth. "Hey," He breathes, and his voice is weak and willowy.

I don't gesture to the soup on his table when I say, "I got you some food, like I promised. You should eat it before it gets cold."

Marco's nose crinkles just barely and the ghost smile gets just a little more lively. "I can smell the garlic." He hums.

"Here." 

I grab the bowl from the nightstand. "Can you sit up?"

Marco stares at the bloody contents of the bowl for a moment before nodding a little and rolling over to push himself up on his elbows. His eyes roll tiredly and he yawns, but sits up all the way and takes the steamy bowl from me with slow, warm hands, fingers brushing lazily over mine. "Thanks," He mumbles and yawns again, taking a testing sip.

"'S it taste all right?" I ask quietly and crawl to the other side of him, careful not to make him spill any on his sheets. "I kind of didn't have much to work with..."

"No, it tastes awesome," Marco breathes, "Did you have any? You should. Here," He scoops up a spoonful and proffers it to me with the bowl held precariously beneath it to catch any potential dripping. 

I leer at the soup. I don't even like tomato soup, and the corner of my mouth twinges a little at the sight of it. "Aren't you contagious?" I ask noncommittally.

Marco makes a face and shrugs, still prompting the soup in my direction. I roll my eyes a little and open my mouth for him to feed me. Because I deserve to be fed. I'm a goddess. The soups garlicky as shit, and my nose starts running after only one spoonful.

"You never told me you could cook," Marco muses and takes back his food. He reaches over to the nightstand and takes one of the sliced sandwich halves (yeah,  _sliced_. I'm gonna be a great parent), dipping it into his soupy concoction and chowing down. I haven't a doubt in the world he's going to pass out again once he's finished, but I'm happy he's talking.

"Well," I stall, lacing my fingers and resting them on my stomach, "I mean, I  _can't_ , so,"

"Bullshit," Marco huffs and offers me a bite of his sandwich, which I politely decline. "Even if this came from a can, it's good.  _Really_ good."

I just sit and watch him eat, making small conversation when necessary, which isn't that often. It's kind of cool watching the food disappear into Marco's mouth, the way his throat undulates each time he swallows, and the healthy glow adopted in his cheeks after a few minutes. It's all worth while for me. I smile gently every time his eyes glide in my direction, and we make contact for the briefest of moments before breaking again, Marco looking at his diminishing food, me at my hands or my shoes. I need to take off my shoes.

Marco doesn't take his bowl up to the kitchen, and he keeps me in place with a firm hand on mine, holding it close when I try to keep up my good housewife facade and clean up after him. He peels his blankets back, still keeping one hand in mine, and shimmies under the covers quite impressively, pulling me down with him.

"'M sleepy as shit now," He mumbles and the yawning starts up again, this time accompanied by the faint odor of garlic and spice.

"Nap time?" I ask.

Marco's eyes slide closed and he just nods, slow and faint, humming. He's so easy to stare at sometimes. With my hand clasped in his, held close to his heart, I'm lying right in front of him. It isn't long before he's snoring, lips parted just barely, his face smushed against his fluffy pillow, breathing slow and methodical just inches from my face. He's the picture of peace like this.

I only wish he could stay like that forever.

* * *

Clarice doesn't ask much of me when she walks past my room Sunday night to see me with a suitcase on my bed and like ten pairs of clothes strewn haphazardly around my room. I've always been one of those people ( _smart_ people) who packs an extra pair of clothes whenever going  _any_ where. In this case, I'm well aware Marco and I are only going to be out for the weekend, but I'm also aware of the inevitable presence of  _children_ this weekend and don't feel like lounging around with peanut butter and snot stains on my shirt.

The thought makes me shudder.

"So, where did you say you guys were going?" Clarice asks disinterestedly, flipping her wheat-colored hair over her shoulder and meandering into my room. She perches right at the foot of my bed, one foot folded under the other.

"Jinae," I answer shortly, and don't look at her in favor of the shirt I'm folding. Marco told me to bring some slacks and a dress shirt and this shit is a bitch to fold without making creases. I just hope I'll have access to a hot iron or something.

"What the fuck is out in Jinae?" Clarice asks and makes a face. 

I shrug. "The country."

"I thought you hated the country," Clarice has her eyes narrowed at me, and though I don't look up to see, I can feel them burning holes into the side of my head. 

I shrug again, folding my dress shirt as much as I can before totally fucking it and going on to the next item of clothing. Thankfully, this one is just a T-shirt. "I do, but Marco has a reunion and he needs me to come up with him."

"Why?"

I make up the lie on the spot, and I must say, it's actually a valid and believable one. "He's diabetic and his mother doesn't trust him to drive so long without someone supervising." I mean, that  _could_ be the real reason, he hasn't exactly  _told_ me why he wants me to join him other than the typical "you're my boyfriend and I want to hang with you" deal.

Unfortunately, Clarice doesn't buy it. "And he really thinks  _you're_ qualified enough to take care of him if things take a turn for the worst?" She hops off my bed and stalks over, snatching my sadly twisted dress shirt from its place in my suitcase and laying it out flat. "You can barely fold your own clothes."

And Clarice is finished folding my dress shirt with the collar up and professional like something straight out of a department store before I can growl at her not to touch my stuff. She doesn't leave after that, either, rolling her eyes at me and flipping over a pair of pants from the other side of my bed and folding those as neatly as she would if she had been doing it since birth. My first reaction is to snap at her for invading my space or something petty like that, but I have half a brain to keep my mouth shut sometimes and let her do what she wants.

"I like to think of it as moral support more than anything." I shake my head. "You saw how he was at dinner. I think he can take care of himself, but from what I've gathered, he hasn't seen his family in a long time and it's getting to him." My eyes flash up to Clarice once and she isn't looking at me. I look back at my hands folding clothes. "He, uh, got himself sick he's so stressed."

Clarice doesn't sound accusatory when she asks, not glancing up, "Why is he going then?"

I hesitate. Do I really want Clarice knowing so much information? "He hasn't told me. 'Just says he has an obligation to go."

"Then why doesn't he take a girlfriend or something?" Clarice finally asks exasperatedly and tosses her last shirt into my suitcase a little too hard. "Why is he taking you?"

"Why do you care?" I snap a little too defensively. I scowl at my hands and look away. "It's not like you hang out with me that much, anyway. You'll have the house to yourself for, like, five days."

Clarice is silent for a long time. So long I think I may have let slip how gay I actually am, and I quickly run over the conversation in my head. I don't find anything in my tone that might give me away other than snapping at her. I don't know. Maybe she won't notice.

"You know," Clarice says and she doesn't look at me. She turns away and I can't see her face. "Forget it. Enjoy your weekend." And she storms out of my room. 

I stare after her for a long time before shaking my head and zipping up my suitcase, setting it at the foot of my bed for easy access. I didn't think she would get  _that_ mad at me, but who the hell am I to speak for my sister; she's the least predictable person in my family. I expect nothing from her because that's the easiest route to take in our relationship.

It isn't even 7:30, but I'm tired as shit and don't want to go downstairs and face the probably menstruating wrath of my sister. I'm staying in my room for the foreseeable future.

* * *

Marco calls bright and early Friday morning to tell me he's on his way over. He get's a nice string of curses from me on the other end, and I lay in bed for five minutes just staring at the ceiling before realizing the time and scrambling to get dressed before he get's here. My shoes sneakers are too complicated to handle in such a foggy state of mind, so I stick with a pair of house slippers and lace my fingers through the backs of my converse to put on when I can tell the difference from my right and left.

The doorbell makes me jump and I struggle to get my suitcase down the stairs without falling over myself. Clarice opens the door before I can get there and solemnly lets Marco in. They're making polite smalltalk as I make it downstairs. By myself.

He's dressed surprisingly punk-ish today, an old black sweat-shirt with the sleeves bunched up to his elbows, a black and white beanie, and his tattered blue jeans. He doesn't, however, have any piercings in.

Marco smiles when he sees me trumping down the stairs and raises a stark eyebrow at the full-to-(almost)-bursting suitcase trailing behind me. I won't say anything, I'm not going to give him the satisfaction of my snapping at him this early. But, alas, Marco needs no help in making me feel like a moron.

"Packing for the apocalypse?" He wonders lightly with a grin I would love to kiss off his face.

I glare back at him, well aware of Clarice still within earshot at the other end of the room. "Yes, as a matter of fact."

Marco chuckles as I breeze past him and open the door. A blast of cold air nips at my cheeks and I groan, both hands slapping down at my sides. "Are you  _shitting_ me?!"

It snowed last night. No, snow is the wrong word for this white shit. Somehow, between the small hours of two and four in the morning, the sky decided to break open and  _dump_ two fucking  _feet_ of heavenly bullshit right on Trost. All without my knowing it.

Granted, I didn't watch the news at all this week, too focused on packing and recovering from fucking midterms still. I should have seen it coming.

"See you, Clarice! Enjoy your weekend!" Marco calls sweetly and closes the door behind me with this absolute shit-eating grin. I hate him. "Don't look so excited, Jean." he teases with that same grin and I swear I could strangle him as he skips ahead of me to Eren's car.

"You better have the heater going, you ass." I sneer at him and yank my suitcase through the snowbank. It's too fucking heavy to pick up, and I'm puffing by the time I make it to Eren's trunk with Marco smirking at me.

"Wow, Kirchstein," Marco grouses, still grinning, and takes the suitcase from me, lifting it easily and setting it right next to his before slamming down the trunk door. "You're, like, the strongest person I've ever seen. I want to be you when I grow up." He narrowly avoids the elbow I have aimed at his ribs.

"Shut your fuck up," I wheeze and limp to the passenger side door. Shit, my hands are freezing already. Shitshitshit _shit._

Marco chuckles again and unlocks the door, kicking the snow from his shoes before climbing in. The heater was on and it feels  _awesome_. "Consider my fuck shut."

"Fuck you," I grumble and Marco just laughs again. 

"Believe me, hun," He kicks the engine to life, a low purr vibrating through our seats, and Marco shifts the Jeep into gear with a wolfish grin. "You will." The Jeep lurches, bounces, and jolts over the un-plowed snow of the residential area, but the terrain flattens out again once we make it onto the busier highways of Trost. And my hands have warmed up enough to comfortably pull them away from the heater and lace my fingers through Marco's.

"You look better," I comment, and he really does. The shininess from his nose is gone, his skin more vibrant than the last time I saw him.

Marco nods. "The soup was good for me. It cleared out my sinuses." His thumb rubs back and forth on my skin, and he drives with one hand. "Thank you for that."

I scoff sarcastically. "That's what bros are for, right?"

Marco smiles warmly, still looking over the road. "Just guys bein' dudes," He grins. 

I had already guessed stress was the reason Marco was so sick the other day, but I never could have known the absolute hell we were about to go through in the meantime.


	9. Formerly Mormon Molly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we finally meet the Mormons, compare small children to starving wolves, and talk about Marco's libido.
> 
> The Bodt siblings' initials spell out SMILES. Yes, I did do that on purpose.
> 
> Edit: Someone pointed this out to me in a comment and I just wanted to warn any of you who may be made uncomfortable, but Jean is a bit of a TWERF in some parts of this chapter. I apologize in advance to any who may have started reading are are squicked or triggered by that in any way! Again, so sorry!

The Bodt family is synonymous to a pack of wolves. I'm first made aware of this when we finally ride up a seemingly never-ending gravel drive to a quaint little house in the dead of night. The porch light isn't on, the headlights of the Jeep the only thing keeping us from being plunged into the darkness with the rest of our small-town surroundings. Marco really wasn't kidding.

"This place is like a ghost town with people still living in it." He'd uttered to me a few moments after we had arrived in the city limits. He had since taken out all piercings, fixed his hair similar to the night of Halloween, and changed into his black Geek Squad shirt. It felt like years since I'd seen him in it rather than weeks.

Coming into the district of Jinae was weird. I've been to small towns before, but this was beyond tiny; like, I'm sure it had only one grocer within close proximity, and _maybe_ a gas station. The whole thing is probably tree shaped if you were to look at it from above, the main road with its empty-looking buildings trailing from squat to squatter and back again, the road branching gently in curved turnoffs onto dark, gravel sub-streets every hundred yards or so. The entire town couldn't be more than a mile long, and I almost think it's just a scenic detour, but then just before the main road comes to an end and merges back onto an empty highway, Marco eases on the brakes and hangs a left. 

The tires churn slickly over the gravel drive, the thin sheet of ice weaseled between the tiny rocks crunching right beneath us. I'm almost scared to breathe, but I'm pretty excited at the same time. There ain't shit here, but this place is actually kinda cute in its own, podunk way. I couldn't live here though, and I suddenly understand the claustrophobia Marco'd told me about on the way here.

"These people will be nice to your face, but keep in mind that they're closed-minded. _Extremely_ close-minded." Marco instructed, his eyes remaining focused on the road. "Just be careful what you say and how you say it, 'cause they can take a wrong-worded prayer and turn it into a confession about masturbation."

I heeded his words, but I couldn't help the snark. I rolled my eyes in his direction, a sly smile picking mischievously at my lips. "Are you speaking from experience or...?"

Marco just made a withering face, nose slightly scrunched, lips pursed, and didn't look at me. "Only a little." He said. "It was an allusion to something else. I don't masturbate." His lips twitched, and his eyes slid over to me momentarily. " _Usually_."

"Really?" That was...actually surprising. I don't know what I had been expecting from him, but it wasn't that. Hell, if I had a body like his, I'd never leave my room. Maybe _that's_ for the best. "Why?"

Marco shrugged, and didn't look at me, turning his head to look out the window at the blue-grey sky. It wasn't forecasted to snow or rain, but I could smell fog rolling in on the horizon. The air was wet and cold, heavy with the impending, ever-present threat of rain in the Rose-Sina cross county. The roads weren't wet, but that could change any moment.

"I have no desire to." Marco said simply. 

I made a face, folding my arms despite the heater blasting hot air directly at my chest. What the fuck is with me and literally  _always_ being cold? It sucks balls. Just like how apparently Marco doesn't. "You're not asexual, are you?"

Marco smirked, his dark eyes going half-lidded and testing. He turned his head toward me. "And if I am?" Marco asked wolfishly.

I cover it with a shrug. Truth be told, I always found asexuality to be a load of bull, but, like, to each their own, I guess. "I mean, it doesn't  _mean_ anything to me. It doesn't change anything if you are." I snorted down at my lap. "I'd still love you and your minute libido."

Marco made me jump by laughing. He laughed so loud and so hard, high and surprised, that his face glowed a healthy pink. "Oh, Jean," He sighed whimsically, twinkling eyes flitting in my direction.

Dude, what the fuck. What the fuck did he just  _do_. That was, like, full on Disney Prince status. What the fuck. I'm dating a fucking Disney Prince. Fuck.

"--of course I have libido. I just have nothing to do with it."

I snorted really loudly, and, frankly, really unattractively. "Yeah, well my ass would beg to differ."

Marco shook his head. A smile tugged enticingly at his lips, and I could almost picture the normally-present ring glinting in the muted light. "I would be content to never have sex again, Jean. But I'd also be content to have sex with you all day if you wanted." I watched as his throat lurched slightly; he hid it well, really well, but I could see this was something pretty close to him. He was just as nervous as I was. "Sex is entirely moot to me. Neither good or bad; just kind of...there."

I nodded, eyebrows hiked up to my hairline, the corners of my mouth pulled down thoughtfully. "That explains the whole virginity thing."

Marco laughed again, though it could also have been described as a nervous giggle. Jesus, I'm going be turned to mush if he keeps doing this fluff stuff to me. "Actually, that's not entirely true..."

My head snapped up so fast I could feel the joints shift and crack. "Marco!" I gasped dramatically. "Did you  _lie_?!"

His face went a beet red, ears almost purple they were so dark, and Marco pinched his shoulders to his jaw defensively. "It's not  _entirely_ true!" He sputtered. "I'd never had sex with a  _guy_ before you!"

"Marco!"

"It still counts!"

"I never would have thought you got around so much!"

Marco scowled vehemently then, but his cheeks were too rosy for me to take seriously. "Shut up." He grumbled exasperatedly, desperately.

I just grinned. This was pretty gratifying, if I do say so myself. "It's not like there's anything wrong with it." I assured, though my tone was still accusatory. "You can't help that you were under the false belief that you liked vagina as a wee lad."

Marco scowled harder still, but piped down. The color never faded from his face.

Actually, if I'm not mistaken, it got just  _barely_ brighter. 

I narrowed my eyes. "Marco...?"

He'd hunched over the steering wheel scowling out over the foggy road. He mumbled something past tight lips, and refused to meet my eyes.

"What?"

He mumbled it again, louder this time, his face going brighter. I still couldn't hear him over the sound of the road passing beneath us.

I leaned over the cupholders between us. "What?"

Marco's jaw twitched, and I heard a very strangled "Goddammit, Jean," before Marco answered for the final time, his voice loud and controlled. "Girls don't need vaginas to be girls." His hands were tight on the steering wheel, eyes focused on one spot in the road, but not really seeing it. I don't know how I knew, but I sensed he was focused on the corner of his vision, staring at me without actually looking in my direction.

I debated for a short moment, one that probably felt a lot longer on Marco's side of the conversation, before settling back in my seat, shrugging. "Okay."

Marco's mouth twitched. " _Okay_?" His eyes slid in my direction, eyebrows crinkled, and I shrugged at him again. "What you do mean 'okay'?"

"I _mean_ ," I shrugged for the third fucking time. God. "I don't care how slutty you are, so long as you're only being slutty with me. Right now." I couldn't help grinning. "As of current, I should be the only inhabitant of downtown Slutsville."

Marco paused, then blinked a lot. He didn't look at me like I looked at him; the misty road, and the dark clouds, or his own lap were the only thing his eyes fell upon, and he was quiet for a really long time. So long, in fact, I thought I'd said the wrong thing.

"Marco..."

"No." He shook his head, clearing his throat. "You suck with words, Jean. Like, a lot." He chuckled once, his eyes finally meeting mine, and I saw a thin veil of tears in them. Not enough to spill over on his cheeks, but enough for me to see. It was _weird_ for me to see, and my heart did one of those flippy-flops in my chest. "But I'm _super_ turned on right now."

That just about made me swallow my tongue. Partnered with the car decelerating and the road suddenly replaced with a grey building off the last turnoff, and I'm also confused as hell. But then everything he was doing clicked, and I clung to the passenger-side door to out-range his advances. "If you think I'm having sex with you in some abandoned warehouse, you really got another thing coming for you. Just because I find dick attractive does not mean I find it attractive in all places. I have fucking standards."

Marco still fumbled with his seatbelt when he looked up at me, one eyebrow arching. "What? No, Jean, Jesus." He rolled up his sleeve enough to show his watch face. "I need to _eat_ something. God, sicko, is sex the  _only_ thing you think about?"

I raised my eyebrows at him, completely thrown through a loop. "Ex _cuse_   _me,_ but it's  _you_ who has to put your dick in everything with a hole big enough. If anyone here has sex on the mind 24/7, it's you."

"I can't," Marco argued. "I'm asexual."

I scoffed and folded my arms. "If girls can still be girls without vaginas and boobs, asexuals can be sex addicts."

Marco narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to say something, but stopped last second and snapped his mouth shut. "Fine, you win this round." He shrugged and opened his door to the chilly night air. He waltzed to the other side of the car and opened my door for me. "C'mon, then."

I stared at him, then up at the looming, dark building, and stayed where I was.

Marco rolled his eyes and offered his hand palm up. "Trust me?" He asked.

God, I hate when he does that. That thing with his eyes where they look all big, and trustworthy, and innocent, and _brown_ like my favorite color. My favorite color isn't even brown normally, it's green, but when he looks at me like that, the only thing I can think of, the only thing that fills my head is deep, velvety brown. And that's not even the worst part. What really sucks is it has a _smell._  A deep, musky smell like Marco right after he's walked out of the shower, and it fogs my brain like  the shower steam on his bathroom mirror.

I stared at his hand enticing me forward and could actually hear my resolve crack with a splintery snap like wood. With a roll of my eyes and a scoff, I punched my thumb into the buckle and peeled my seatbelt back, snagging Marco's hand in mine and rolling out of the car. "Just this once, Bodt. Make it count."

Marco returned my smirk and quickly pecked me on the forehead before towing me right of the Jeep, where the warehouse came to an end only to be picked up by another, much squatter, much more inviting red brick building. The lights were out in this one too, the front door garnished with a cold "Sorry! We're Closed!" sign hanging behind the glass.

Marco's pace didn't falter, instead he turned into the narrow alley where the warehouse ended and the restaurant began and slinked down there to one of those forest green Dumpsters.

"Dumpster diving?" My hand flew to my chest in faux-flattery and I looked at Marco with sparkly eyes. " _You shouldn't have_."

I wished I could bottle the withering look Marco threw over his should at me; I'd make millions selling it to angsty teen girls on the internet.

We walked together past the Dumpster, me still cackling under my breath before Marco stopped suddenly, and I bumped right into him. We stood before a short flight of concrete steps leading up to one of those heavy metal doors you see kicked open in just about every mafia movie. One of those I half expected a muscly, tattooed giant to be leering behind when Marco knocked on it four times.

But it wasn't Paul Bunyan who opened the door and asked for a secret password. No, what we got was a short, shapely woman with a spot of flour on her left, freckly cheek, her hair still damp and shiny from a shower. She wiped her hands on her aproned waist at the sight of us and gasped, her eyes wide like she wasn't sure what she was looking at. The woman stumbled back a step.

Marco's grin widened, and he shortened the gap between them. "Hi, Aunt Ilse," he said in one of those tones that hinted he was trying to fight a bout of laughter.

The woman's cheeks peppered pink, her eyes widened even more, and her hand flew to her mouth. She stood there for a long moment, in the entrance of what I recognized as a white tile kitchen filled with pots and pans and the smell of something cooking mixed with the odor of Clorox bleach. A small gasp escaped the woman, and she breathed something that I couldn't hear from behind Marco before barreling right into him and wrapping her arms tight around his chest. Flour and dough smeared on his jacket--a black jacket mind you--but all he did was hug her back, swaying left and right with his face pressed into her hair.

"Oh, my gosh!" The woman cried, pulling away enough that she could look at Marco's whole face. One hand cupped his cheek. "Oh, my gosh! When did you get in?"

Marco beamed. "Jean and I just got here." He nodded back at me.

"Jean?" The woman looked around and spotted me standing awkwardly behind Marco. "Oh, Jean!" She let Marco go and walked over to me with light, Crocced steps. Yeah, she wore Crocs. With jeans. "Marco's told me about you! How have you liked your taste of Jinae country so far?"

I took the doughy hand she offered and let her lead me inside. The kitchen was infinitely warmer than the back alley, and something about it made me want to make peach jam and muffins. "Definitely not a country boy, I'll admit, but this place is pretty homey." I want to know what the fuck Marco spewed about me to this woman. She looks like one who'd go into cardiac arrest after seeing a cigarette butt on the sidewalk because  _someone out there was defiling the word of God_. "I'm Jean Kirchstein."

"Ilse Lagner," The woman greeted, and her handshake was more like a handhold. "No blood relation to the Bodt clan, I'm afraid, but everyone's family here."

Ilse was all smiles, especially when she glanced in the direction of her not-nephew like the fucking prodigal son returned. "So how has college been treating you two?"

I felt the question was directed mostly at Marco, which was fine with me; I didn't know this lady enough to spill about personal happenings in my life, even if her scones and honey butter were the absolutely fucking shit. Seriously, I think I ate six before the main course was even there.

"Can't complain." Marco shrugged. He was all smiles just like his not-aunt since we had gotten there, and I'm pretty sure he'd taken double doses of insulin for our small-hour feast of pancakes, scones, and bacon. "My classes are harder than f--" Marco coughed into his fist, "--freaking heck. But nothing I haven't done before."

"And how did you and Jean meet?"

My hands froze for a split second, so short it looked more like I'd had a muscular hiccup than an actual hesitation. I looked over at Marco, who'd frozen as well. He stared at his plate, at the syrup spilling from his pancakes onto his bacon in a sweet sugar-grease combination, and didn't answer his aunt. 

"We're roommates," I supplied where Marco didn't. "And we had Statistics together."

Ilse smiled and turned to the eggs she was folding over in a pan. She seemed oblivious to the short pause and Marco's sudden quietness, so I guessed that was a good sign. "Oh, great," Ilse groused playfully, rolling her eyes. "Now we get  _two_ math whizzes in town."

And just like that, Marco snapped out of it. He smirked, blinking once and rolling his chocolate eyes in Ilse's direction. "Just because  _you_ can't count past twenty..." he teased.

Isle whipped around so fast a bit of egg flung from her spatula and onto the floor five feet away. Her cheeks were pink again, lips pursed into a thin line. If it were possible, I would expect lightning to crackle at her fingertips from the harried glare she threw at him. "Marco David Bodt, I most certainly  _can_ count past twenty, and I can also kick your butt right to the border of eastern Trost!"

I raised an eyebrow. _David?_

Interesting.

But Marco didn't seem fazed. In fact, he grinned even wider, looping one arm around my shoulders and shaking me in a chummy, heterosexual way. "Speaking of which, Jean here is a native! The kid really got to showing me the ropes up in good ol' Yupsterville."

Ilse's demeanor changed as well. Like blowing out a candle, her face melted from blazing hot and angry, to simmery and warm. "Did you now?"

I nodded awkwardly against Marco's underarm, trying my damnedest to keep my face from blowing up right then and there because, holy  _shit,_ he smells good from here. "Yeah," then a wolfish grin wheedled its wolfish way onto my lips. "It was kinda tough getting the country bumpkin out of him, though. S'like he'd never seen a traffic light in his life."

A loud, contagious laugh bubbled from Ilse's throat; the kind that made everyone in the room smile and gaze in her direction. She hugged her sides and slapped her knee. "Country bumpkin!" Ilse wheezed. "Of all people, he's calling  _you_ the country bumpkin!" She laughed again and again, leaning on the counter for support and moving her eggs so they didn't burn. "Oh, Marco," Ilse sighed and wiped her eyes. "Make sure to keep an eye on him. Your folks'll eat him alive."

A gaping pit of nerves opened suddenly in my gut and I gulped the food still in my mouth. It didn't fill the void. "What's that supposed to mean?" I asked politely.

Marco huffed one short laugh, squeezing my neck one more time for good measure, and pinched my nose between his thumb and index before letting me go. "It _means_ ," he grinned, "I'm the most modern person in the family. The closest to civilization you're going to be for the next four days."

"Doesn't your mother still have a flip phone?" Ilse asked lightly and brought her scrambled eggs over to the island and sat on the metal stool across from us.

Marco nodded sagely. "Dad too."

My mouth fell open.  _Flip phones?_ Do they even  _make_ those anymore?

"Can't be bothered with cordless landlines either."

"And dial-up works just as good as high-speed internet."

"No, I think they got rid of the computer after Seb and I left for school."

"What the f...h-heck is wrong with you people?" I asked exasperatedly. What a bunch of  _savages_. How does anything get done?! "It's the 21st century and you don't have any form of internet?"

Ilse gave me a look of concern at my almost swearing, but Marco grinned.

"What were you expecting, Kirchstein? This is the backwoods. There ain't a real shopping center for at least an hour in any direction." Marco's grin widened, and I blanched. "A few of our neighbors still have outhouses."

Fucking  _eww._

Lucky for me, Ilse, the absolute beauty, came to my rescue. "Marco, stop it." She laughed lightly, and speared some eggs with her fork. "Don't you think it's a little late to be scaring him this much?" She turned to me then, smiling warmly, and I swear I could've kissed her heavenly face. "Honestly, Jean. He has  _one_ neighbor with an outhouse in a field near his home which  _thankfully_ has indoor plumbing."

"Speaking of which," Marco was checking his watch suddenly. "We should be heading out soon. I promised mom we'd be there before morning, and she'd flip if we made her stay up too late." He pushed off from his seat. "I'll be right back." 

My back broke out in goosebumps when his shoulder brushed against me, and I sipped my glass of water to hide the coloring in my cheeks.

The kitchen was silent for three long seconds when Marco left, but I can't say I was uncomfortable with Ilse studying me from across the island. Her eyes stayed kind, if a little worried, and a tiny smile still played around her lips.

"So, are you his boyfriend?" Ilse finally asked, and twirled her fork between her fingers.

My face heated up about a hundred degrees, but the rest of my body felt cold. My throat flexed, but I forgot how to swallow and had to clear a hunk of bacon from my throat before speaking. "U-uh."

The corner of Ilse's mouth twitched and she looked away. "I won't burn you at the stake if you are. He's told me he has one, and I'm just wondering if it's you." She said gently, like we were suddenly in a glass room that might shatter if she spoke to loudly. "Is it?"

I wasn't sure if this was safe territory for me to tread on. Sure, Ilse seemed nice now, but the way she acted reminded me of a parent asking if a child was lying, claiming they won't get in trouble if they just tell the truth. At least when my parents were concerned, that was always a lie.

I also didn't know if this was something Marco wanted me to tell people. His parents and two of his siblings knew about me, but that didn't include his not-aunt. Would she kick us out if I said yes? Would she spot the lie if I said no?

I decided on following my gut, the same gut that told me I was a bad liar in tense situations, the same gut that said Marco wouldn't care.

And I nodded. "Yeah," I said, and my voice was like one of those thread-bare shrugs Clarice wore when it was hot outside: weak and with little substance. "I'm his boyfriend."

I never thought saying it aloud would be so terrifying, but there we were.

Ilse continued to twirl her fork around, and I got the sudden image of her vaulting over the island and plunging the small utensil into the side of my head, spitting some verse from the bible about if a man lay with another man as he lay with a woman he shall burn in hell as the devil, but she just sat there. A good portion of her eggs still sat uneaten on her plate, but that didn't stop her from standing from her seat and carrying it to the sink. I hoped I hadn't take away her appetite by saying what I did.

She rinsed her plate in controlled silence, and the sound of the water slurping down the sink made me wish I were slipping along in it, slinking down the pipes to be hidden away deep in the bowels of the countryside. I wished I could shrink down to microscopic levels to live among the dust mites in the spaces between the floor tiles. Ilse's appetite might still have been there, but mine definitely wasn't.

The sink still swallowed the remaining water when the faucet was flipped off, and the sound rippled through my head like it were an empty room. Again, I imagined diving headfirst into the sewage and swimming to the sea. What was that saying? All drains lead to the ocean?

"Thank you for telling me." Ilse said, though she didn't sound very grateful. I couldn't bring myself to look at her, to see the look of disgust probably tugging her mouth into a sneer, but I listened. "I know that was hard for you to say, but I'm happy you told me."

I stared down at the remaining food on my plate, and understood why Ilse had dumped hers: food was something to be eaten in the good company of others. Eating around people you weren't comfortable with made it stale and rancid. The scones and bacon I'd eaten suddenly sat cold and lumpy like cement in my gut.

I grabbed both Marco's plate and mine and took them to the sink, setting them beside Ilse so as not to scare her. "Does that bother you?" I asked mildly. It was one of those questions she was allowed not to answer. "Marco being like this?"

I wasn't about to say the word " _gay_ " around her. It used to mean happy, still meant it as far I as I was concerned, but...I didn't feel it just then. My stomach kind of hurt, actually.

I had a feeling that Ilse would deny it anyway, Marco being  _gay_ , I mean. She'd probably say it was just a college phase, something he'd grow out of. Hell, maybe he would.

Ilse took the plates without saying anything for a long time. "No," she said. "I love Marco, believe me, and I want him to be happy. I don't believe in living like that, in... _doing_ what you two do, but." Ilse froze, washing some raspberry jam from a plate with the hot stream of water. She sighed, and that sigh held a lot of unspoken words, some that were good, others that made my stomach roil. "Things were tense the last time Marco left here. We weren't sure if he'd come back after, and--" Ilse swallowed, keeping her eyes down, and I saw her lip tremble once. "If living like this makes Marco happy, happy enough to come home even for just a few days, I'm willing to put my own beliefs aside for that long and just enjoy his company."

I stared at my hands. "Oh," I mumbled lamely. It was all I really could think to say. 

And all I had to apparently. Ilse dried her hands, plunking the dishes down in the sink and spread her arms for a hug. "You seem like a good kid, Jean," She spoke into my chest, and her voice was muffled by my shirt. "Just promise me you'll do your best to help him stay happy these next few days, alright?" She pulled away and held me by the upper arms, squeezing my biceps once with a watery smile and misty voice. "Be there to support him?"

I nodded and swallowed my heart before it could clog its way in my esophagus. "Sure. No problem." I told her, a little dazed.

A door somewhere outside the kitchen slammed and not five seconds later Marco pushed through the swinging door, still wiping his hands on his jeans. "Sorry I took so long. Had to check my blood sugar and take more insulin."

Ilse rolled her eyes, sidestepping away from me, and the water in her expression was gone. Only smiles remained. "Honestly, you're going to slip into a coma if you keep doing that, young man." 

"And  _you're_ going to have some costumer complaints in the next few hours if you don't get something to wipe their wet hands on in the bathroom." Marco retorted and swept her into a big bear hug.

Ilse laughed. "Your pants seem to work just fine for that!"

Eren's Jeep was going to smell like an IHOP for the next two weeks from all the leftover food Ilse gave us to take the rest of the way to Marco's place. We tried to say no, that we would be back later with more mouths and emptier stomachs, but the lady's stubborn as a damn mule. The first word of my very politely placed "No, thank you" hadn't even escaped my mouth before she'd piled three styrofoam boxes jam-packed with scones into my grubby little hands. And even then, Marco had to drag me from the kitchen before she could give us more.

Our only solace was inside the confines of the locked doors and rolled up windows of Eren's Jeep. Marco risked rolling down his own window about an inch and leaned out with the cabin light turned on. " _Goodbye, Ilse_ ," he enunciated into the night, his breath fogging up the window where it didn't escape into the chilly air as white ribbon. "We will see you  _to-mor-row_."

Ilse hugged herself to keep warm, and waved out to us. "You make sure to feed him!" she waggled her finger in my direction. "The poor boy's nothing but skin and bone!"

Marco sat back and grinned in my direction, and I took it as my cue to take a parcel from one of my  _six total_ boxes of scones and shove half of it into my mouth. I gave Ilse a thumbs up through the windshield and Marco put the gears in reverse. The cabin light went out and Marco honked a goodbye to Ilse retreating back into her restaurant hovel, and I spit my scone out into my hand, tossing it out the window before I threw up all over the front seat.

"That woman is insane." I groaned and leaned my seat back to stretch out my stomach. Jesus Christ, my _stomach_. It felt like it would to rip open any second. "I'm going to _explode._ "

Marco laughed at my expense and rolled his window up the rest of the way. "Yeah, a little word of advice: always leave enough room for more food with these people. There's no such thing as a light meal to them." He gave my skinny ass a sideways glance and patted my hand with his. "You  _might_ have to have your stomach pumped sometime this weekend. They aren't going to let you leave without making sure you've gained at least ten pounds."

I swatted his hand away and draped my arm over my face, groaning again. " _Fuuuuuuuuck_."

"Just one step at a time, Jean," Marco laughed very helpfully (and by helpfully, I mean he's an asshole). "One step at a time."

* * *

I still stand by my word when I said Marco was raised by wolves. Duly so because, like wolves, it seems everyone in this god forsaken town is nocturnal, and, y'know, it takes a village. 

We don't even make it to his humble hovel of residence until well past two in the morning, but as the headlights skate over the windows, the curtains draped over a wide window flutter and a face peeks out at us. I can't tell from the dark if it's a person or a dog, male or female, but Marco smirks beside me as he cuts the engine.

"Home, sweet home." He mutters and takes off his seatbelt. The dashboard dings at us to take out the keys when Marco opens the door, his footsteps muffled by the starchy snow and gravel underfoot. My limbs feel like half-dry modeling clay, my elbows and shoulders popping as I stretch my arms forward with a giant yawn. I hop out beside Marco, and grab my backpack from the back seat.

"We can get the rest in the morning," Marco mumbles from the other side of the car. "I think I'm gonna pass out in the snow."

I card a hand through my hair, fluffing it up in every which direction in an attempt to wake myself up, and follow Marco to the front door. He knocks softly, closer to a firm tapping with his knuckles, but still, a light stirring and stumbling comes from the other side of the door. The porch light flashes on, flooding the front yard in yellow fluorescence and chasing off any oogie boogies that may have been nipping at our vulnerable ankles. The deadbolt slides open to a short girl with wavy brown hair raked back into a bubble bun right at the top of her head. Despite the dark circles under her eyes, the girl grins at us (well, at Marco) and lets us both inside after very nearly tackling Marco to the ground in a big hug. "Hi, how was it?" She whispers excitedly, and her breath escapes in a grey cloud.

The living room is dark, our footsteps muffled by the kind of ugly, coarse carpet you'd expect in a hotel or banquet hall, and another body stands from a couch oriented toward the large, lawn-facing window. He comes into the light of the small desk lamp on the inn table, and I recognize his face as the one which peered out at Marco and I just minutes ago.

"How was the road?" The girl whispers, hugging her arms around herself to keep the chill from sinking in too deep. "Did it rain at all?"

Marco grins at her, and tugs her in for another hug that sweeps her feet off the floor by an inch. "No, the weather was merciful. Did mom go to bed already?"

This time it's the boy who speaks up, his voice hushed and slightly groggy. "She crashed about an hour ago. We promised to stay out here until you got in." He looks over at me and offers a calloused hand. "I'm Isaac, by the way."

"Jean." His hand is warm enough that my entire arm pimples with goosebumps and my fingers ache from the previous cold. "Sorry to wake you."

Isaac waves me off  with a slow grin despite his disheveled hair and very obvious pajamas. "We don't sleep in this household. S'no biggie."

Marco takes that as his cue to drown Isaac in a big brotherly hug full of back slaps and squeezing. Isaac coughs loudly, but takes it in stride.

Marco pulls away and rests his hand on Isaac's shoulder. "Thanks for waitin' up for us, Zac. I owe you one."

"So, are you Jean?" The girl asks at my side, casually taking a step closer. "Marco's friend?"

The word "friend" has double-meaning and she said it like she knew it already, kind of like Ilse had before, but the girl doesn't seem bothered by it. Just curious. And she obviously isn't scared, either.

I nod at her and give a close-lipped smile. "I'm Marco's friend." I don't give her my hand to shake.

The light from the lamp shines in her eyes and on her teeth when she smiles, and the girl gives me her hand. "I'm Lily, Marco's sister."

I just...stare at her hand for a moment like a complete moron. Like her hand will bite me if I take it, but then I do, and her hand is soft and warm. "Nice to meet you, Lily." I whisper.

Marco shrugs on his backpack then, sighing the sigh of the century, one filled with sixteen hours worth of missed sleep and a cozy bed. "Is the basement clean?" He asks, hope brimming in his sleepy expression.

Lily and Isaac exchange a wayward glance, one filled with doubt and sheepishness. "Em snuck into Sam's room earlier," Lily cringes at Marco. "You can sleep in her room for tonight, and we'll clean out the basement tomorrow." The light outside gutters, and Isaac shuffles past me to flip it off, plunging the outside world in the impenetrable darkness of a town unaffected by light pollution. It's like nothing exists out there, a void where time disintegrates and silence is deafening. The effect makes me shudder, and Lily glances in my direction.

I walk through the kitchen behind Marco with the footsteps of a person wandering through an unfamiliar house. Even with three of the Bodtlings knowing of my presence, I still feel like an intruder at best, and it doesn't help that whoever this Em person is has a room like a pageant mom lost her lunch on every single wall.

Coral pink walls flanked with a plush rug shaped like a butterfly, a basement window draped with purple, glittery, organza curtains, two Barbie posters on opposing walls, and powder pink  _everything._ The bed frame is pink, the carpet beneath the rug is pink, and I swear on my own hallowed grave even the blood seeping from my eyes is the same milky color of Pepto Bismol. "Please tell me this is a nightmare," I roll my neck in Marco's direction.

He looks too tired to mind, stumbling past me and flopping down face-first on the fluffy magenta quilt. He heaves one great sigh and a winded "Sweet Jesus" escapes his lungs.

I roll my eyes and sigh as well. Holy shit is it late. One sharp glance at my phone shows a very cruel 3:30 in the morning, and an ever encroaching day of sleep deprivation. Good luck getting me to watch my mouth tomorrow, let alone be pleasant.

And while I'm looking at him, Marco looks especially comfortable in the warm glow of his little sister's pink fairy lamp. He breathes deep and heavy, but doesn't snore, so I know he hasn't fallen asleep just yet, and even the muffled  _thump_ of my backpack dropped to the floor doesn't stir him. I don't bother with kicking off my shoes as I crawl in beside him, shoving his shoulder aside so I don't bruise myself by his behemoth muscles and bones stabbing into my side.

"Goddamn, this bed is too small," I grumble beside Marco, wheedling myself between him and the wall.

He grunts sleepily, blindly moving his arms and legs to cater to my squirming until both his arms are wrapped tight around my chest, his face buried between my shoulder blades. Marco languidly--and quite impressively--kicks off his shoes without untying them first, and his leg territorially drapes over my waist. He sighs again.

We lay like that for a long moment, neither talking or moving aside from deep breathing, until claustrophobia snaps us both and we break away with similar moans.

"I'm taking the floor this time," I heave and roll off the bed, shedding my jacket as a makeshift blanket and snatching the pillow from under Marco's head.

He frowns blearily up at me, squinting in the dim light with an expression of  _dude, what the fuck?_ , and I pinch his nostrils together. Marco grins, lazily batting my hand away.

I step on the heels of my shoes to get them off, dropping the coral pink pillow on the butterfly rug and tugging the chain on the fairy lamp. The room goes entirely dark, but it doesn't feel as empty as it did looking outside before. With Marco in the room beside me, and sleep weighing down my eyelids, the total black is welcome and peaceful as fuck. Even if I  _am_ sleeping on the floor.

I roll onto my back and let gravity work its magic. My joints snap in a satisfying way much like when you get to stretch your legs after a long car ride without pitstops. Fabric rustles and the bed squeaks beside me, and Marco's hand drops over the edge right near my face. I stare at the fuzzy shape in the dark before grasping it gently in my own hand, squeezing once, and press my lips to Marco's knuckles in a goodnight kiss.

I hear him sigh above me, and I swear Marco's fingers tighten just barely around mine before a rumble rolls from deep in his chest and he's snoring softly.

The corners of my mouth tug up into a faint smile, and I squeeze Marco's hand one final time before allowing his limp fingers to slip from mine, and let sleep overtake me.

* * *

I'm confused and disoriented waking up in the morning, my back and left side aching from sleeping on the floor. I thought the rug would help with that, but all I've gotten from it is the spotty impression of a fabric flower on the side of my arm. A spot of crusty drool coats my cheek and I'm aware enough to wipe it on the back of my hand and I try to get back to the remnants of slumber.

I swear to god every bone in my body crackles and pops as I roll on my side, cramming my face into the soft, slobbery pillowcase and trying to get back to sleep.

But it's really hard to sleep with Marco staring at me like that.

I peek one eye open at him, then the other, and his face is all blurry from the sleep still crusting up my eyes. A yawn builds from the back of my throat, and I scrub my eyelids with the back of my hand.

That...isn't Marco. That's a girl.

"Uhh..." I clumsily push up on my elbows, and the girl flinches back into a tangle of pink blankets and stiff, black fabric that I recognize as Marco's still-jacketed arms. "Hi."

Her eyes are the clearest hazel I've ever seen, staring at me with a mixture of fear and awe. "Who are you?" she asks way too loud, and I flinch at her young, accusatory voice.

Marco's arms twitch and shift to life, wrapping tighter around his sister, pulling her closer to the center of the bed. A deep groan wrestles from his throat, scratchy and whiny from sleep. "Emily," Marco mumbles, pressing his face into her tiny shoulder and sighing massively. His hair is the same pigment as hers, and I can't tell where her's starts and his ends and where it all mixes together. "Please keep your voice down. M'tryna sleep."

The girl looks over her shoulder at an awkward angle, then back at me like I'm going to rip her hand off with my teeth. I scoot back in case she screams. God dammit, don't scream, _please_. "Marco, there's someone in my room," she insists, patting his leg excitedly. "I don't know who he is."

"Uhhh," I sit up all the way, scooting back again. "Marco?"

Marco grumbles and rolls over so he's facing the wall with his sister still clutched in his arms, and I can only see one of her legs draped over his waist. "It's just  _Jean_." Marco heaves in the same grizzly bear voice I've heard so many times already. "Please stop talking."

"But why does he have my pillow?"

" _Because he slept on the floor_." Marco breathes swiftly.

"Why did he sleep on the floor?"

"We got in late."

"Oh." Emily pauses, glancing at me, then back at her brother. "Why?"

Marco groans loudly and shifts, sitting up in bed and rubbing his eyes with a deep frown and something unintelligible muttered under his morning breath. He blinks once, blearily, and turns to his sister, still wearing the frown. "What _time_ is it, Em?" he croaks.

Emily is a lot more pleasant, and I notice the long rope braid running down the length of her back, the curly wisps around her hairline and ears already breaking free, and her pressed clothes. The sun shines gently through the curtains, enticing a new morning, but it's cast in a light, muddled grey that warps time. "It's seven thirty." _Seven thirty._  "Mom made breakfast if you want some." She peeks at me from beside Marco, her eyes wide and untrusting. "I don't know if that means you too."

Marco scoffs, already more awake, and loops his arm around her slender shoulders, tugging her ear with his other hand. "That means him too. Don't be rude."

"But I'm not supposed to talk to strangers, Marco." Emily insists, and eyes me again. I don't think I could be that threatening with my tousled bedhead and wrinkly shirt, but, then again, I probably wouldn't think a random stranger found in  _my_ room with Clarice would be all that cute either. I'd probably throw something at them if I'm entirely honest, and consider Emily's grace at merely insulting me.

But Marco rolls his eyes and tugs Emily onto his lap, tossing his legs over the side of the bed to face me. "He's not a stranger, he's my friend." Marco snuggles his face into her shoulder, making her squeal and squirm and waking himself more at the same time. "Emily, this is Jean." His voice is muffled by her shirt, and he lifts his head to smirk at me with his eyes. "Jean, Emily." 

Emily still appraises me, and I run a hand through my hair to smooth it out a little.

I wave awkwardly at her. "Hi."

The tiny space between her dark eyebrows crinkles curiously in a not-quite scowl. "Why are you sleeping on my floor, Jean?"

"Um." My eyes flit to Marco for instruction, but the only help he offers is a quirked eyebrow and narrowed eyes. "Because I don't have a bed." It sounds like a question, but Emily rolls her eyes.

"Well,  _why_ didn't you sleep with Marco then?" She all but demands like it's the most glaringly obvious remedy to my predicament.

Marco coughs out a strangled laugh, and watches for my reaction. "Yeah, Jean, why didn't you sleep with me?" He asks in an almost offended tone, like I  _haven't_ had his dick in my mouth before.

I smirk, looking back to Emily waiting expectantly for her answer. "Because Marco's a bed hog and wouldn't let me."

Emily giggles, making me smile, and I smirk at Marco to make his next move.

He doesn't really; his stomach does.

"What was  _that?"_ I laugh along with Emily, fully aware of a curse missing. There was a 'fuck' due to be said somewhere in that question.

Marco raises his eyebrows bemusedly, shooting an almost concerned glance in Emily's''s direction. "I don't know." He muses and rubs a hand across his abdomen. "Do you know of any monsters that live in stomachs?" He asks Emily.

"Uncle Will had a tapeworm a few months ago!" Emily blurts enthusiastically. "And Isaac watches a show about bugs living in people."

Marco sighs and stands with a sleepy groan, his sister balanced on one hip. "That's because Isaac's a freak." He throws me a look that could either be interpretted as "I'll explain later" or "I'll show you later" and stumbles to the door with a grumbled "geez, Em, you're getting big."

"Sam is even bigger than me." Emily argues and closes the door behind them.

Their voices trail down a hall, or maybe into the living room; I can't remember the layout of the house from my scone stoning last night, and it takes me a while to realize that I've been left alone in a little girl's room. So long that I'm still sitting on Emily's butterfly rug like a total jackass when Marco pushes the door open, Em still balanced at his hip.

"You comin' or what, Kirchstein?" Marco grins, nodding his head back toward the hallway.

"Oh, uh." I creak to my feet, brushing dust and lint from my jeans just to give my hands something to do and my eyes something to look at. "Yeah."

"Ilse was joking about my folks eating you alive, you know." Marco mutters close to my ear so Emily can't hear. "I told them to be nice. Don't worry."

I can't help rolling my eyes at least a little. "That helps a lot." I grouse.

Marco smiles a half smile, the one that makes me miss the rings he usually wears at the corner of his mouth, and his almond eyes are warm behind the obvious sarcasm. "You're welcome."

He leads most of the way through the house, chatting with Emily about stuff he's missed while in Trost. Occasionally he'll throw a glance over his shoulder at me, sometimes grinning, sometimes just checking to make sure I'm still there behind him, but each and every time his eyes burn with something I can't really read. I can tell it isn't anything bad, so I file it away for later.

I finally start recognizing my surrounding as we climb the stairs. This place isn't the living room from last night, but the table and back counter with the banana rack are familiar.

The people sitting at the table, however, are not.

The first one I really get a look at is an absolute bear of a man crouched on a stool with a plate loaded with all assortments of breakfast crap. He doesn't speak to anyone, but chows down on his morning mountain with a fervency I've never seen outside of an Animal Planet special on wolves. And that same animalism doesn't spare the others at the table, either. 

I spot Isaac and Lily next, sitting just beside each other and looking a helluva lot more awake than last night. Isaac's curly hair is smoothed, his shirt changed, and though she has it done similar to last night, the bun atop Lily's head looks tidier and is now adorned with a plated blue ribbon and flower clip.

I don't recognize the little boy sitting next to Lily, though the dark hair and dirty smattering of freckles suggests he's one of the family. Could this be the Sam Emily was talking about?

I gaze at Emily, then back to the boy. He doesn't look that much bigger than her.

Then a woman I hadn't noticed beyond the general clinking of forks and dishes and morning chatter pops out of nowhere jump-scare style, making me leap from my spot behind Marco. "Oh, there he is! Our morning star!" She rounds the counter, and the heady smell of french toast follows behind her. "And who's this second star to the right?"

The woman smiles a genuine smile at me, and if I hadn't known that she knew about me and Marco, I would have thought she thought I was a part of the family. 

The hand she offers me is warm and wet and soapy. "You must be Jean,"

I shake it delicately, not because I'm a delicate handshake kind of guy, but I don't want her thinking I'll get her hands dirty with my gay germs if I squeeze too hard. "I am. Are you Marco's mom?"

I'll admit, these guys are pretty swell at hiding it if they  _do_ think I'm harboring any STDs. The woman smiles again, taking back her hand without so much as a shudder, and gestures for Marco and I to sit down in the two empty seats between Bear Man and Presumed Sam. Not even thirty seconds and she hands us both large dinner plates stacked full with eggs, bacon, french toast, and hash browns (and a small blue cosmetics bag that clinks with glass for Marco). That isn't to mention the bowl of cubed fruit and oddly familiar scones with butter and jam placed at the center of the table. 

Maybe Marco wasn't kidding about me gaining some weight this weekend.

"I won't force you to eat everything for your first meal here," Marco's mom prefaces. "But keep in mind that you  _will_ finish a plate before you leave for Trost. They always do." She smiles again, and goes back to whatever she was doing on the other side of the counter.

I glance at Marco, and he shrugs. 

"They always do," Marco agrees and shovels in a mouthful of eggs.

Bear Man eyes me in a way similar to something my dad does when reading stock folders or business emails: one eyebrow cocked over narrowed lashes, head slightly tilted, and lips screwed up to the corner of his mouth. His bright eyes flicker over to Marco, and he swallows.

"Well, Marco, are you going to introduce us?" Bear Man asks in a gruff voice, one that rings with copious amounts of  _I thought I raised you better_.

Marco looks up, almost taken aback, but snaps out of it. "Oh!" He grins, and slaps a rough hand on my shoulder. "Family, this is Jean." He gestures to me with his other hand, his grin widening, his voice loud enough that I cringe. "Jean, this is my family." He uses his arm to gesture to his mother who looks over her shoulder to smile at us like she has a sixth sense. "That's my mom, Bethany,"--he moves his arm to point at Bear Man--"and this is my dad, Cameron. You've met Isaac and Lily,"--Isaac waves with two fingers, still chewing, and Lily smiles at me with rosy cheeks--"Sam over here is the youngest,"--you're darn tootin' I was right about that freckle beast being of Marco's relation--"but he's still bigger than his big sis, Emily." Marco reaches over and pats Emily on the head, and she grins up at me, finally getting over her apparent fear of me now that we've been properly introduced.

"Nice to meet you," Bear Man Cameron says and I can tell he doesn't really mean it, but I shake his calloused hand anyway. "Good to know Marco's been making some good friends." I can almost hear the unsaid ' _for once'_ tailing the end of his sentence, but again, I ignore it.

I can feel Marco staring at me like he expects me to snap at his dad, and I know both of us almost wish I would.

"You look like you could sleep more." Lily comments on the side, in a smooth, high voice that eases the tension that really isn't there to begin with. "You look tired."

I glance at her, and she seems sincere, but like _hell_  am I going back to sleep in a house full of people I barely know. Like  _Hell_.

"Oh," I grin, "that's just my face. I don't retain color very well so I always look kinda sick."

"Marco, you should take him out to get some sun!" Bethany suggests in a bright voice. "After you're both dressed, that is." She eyes my wrinkled shirt with a grin, and I make sure to return it.

Marco makes a high noise in the back of his throat like he's just been reminded of something. "Are the stables still open?" He asks, an excited gleam in his dark eyes.

Bethany turns around with an eye roll. " _Yes_ , of course." She pushes her plaid sleeves up to her elbows when they start to slide. "Maybe if you ask nicely, Seb'll let you  take his truck to do donuts out on the hardpan."

The glimmer in Marco's eye dulls fractionally, but the grin stays. "Seb's here?"

Bethany shakes her head. "He's supposed to be back in an hour. They had to go clear out to Sina to get Imogen checked up again."

I'm so engrossed in Marco's face, the slightly disgusted expression he wears, I almost miss the light tugging on my sleeve. Emily looks up at me, and stands on her stool to whisper in my ear. "Imogen is Sebastian's daughter. She's a year younger than me."

"Is she sick again?" Marco asks, treading lightly.

My eyebrows pull together, and my fork clinks lightly against my plate when I set it down. "Well, how old are  _you_?" I ask.

Emily grins, and I notice for the first time the large gap in her mouth where a front tooth should be. She brushes an unruly lock of dark hair from her face with a certain sense of pride reserved specifically to little kids. "I just turned eight on Thursday," Emily gleams.

Bethany smiles, and there's something there that I can't read when I glance back at her, much like when Marco kept throwing looks over his shoulder at me earlier. "She's fine, kiddo. Seb's just...being Seb."

Cameron rolls his eyes. "Overprotective son of a gun."

Bethany turns the grin to the back of her husband's head, then her eyes flit back over to me. "Are you finished, Jean?" She wipes her hands on a towel hanging from the handle of the stove and pads over to the table. She refills Cameron's glass of orange juice with her eyes still trained on me.

I glance back down at my plate only half eaten. I admit it was a lot bigger dent than I'd thought I would ever make, but my stomach is already complaining about that alone. I don't want to vomit in front of (or  _on_ ) more of the Bodt family than I already have, so I hold out my plate for her hands to take. "Thank you, it was really nice." I say, and put my hands in my lap.

Marco speaks around a mouthful of food. "I'll bring in the rest of our stuff if you want to get in the shower." He rises slowly from his seat, but keeps his plate where it is. "Lemme show you around."

"Okay."

It's both a relief and not walking out into the cold morning air to Eren's Jeep. I know at least Lily and (maybe) Emily are okay with me, and Isaac seems all right. Sam had spent most of the meal just staring at me and my hair like he's never seen blond before, and I thought Cameron was going to rip out a cattle prod and zap me away from Emily if I ever leaned too close. But Marco seems calm and cool, so I'll trust him on that.

"How am I doing?" I ask when he opens the back door and we're out of earshot. "Am I doing okay?"

Marco looks like I ripped him from some other existential plane and pushes my suitcase over the seat for me to grab. "You're doing fine, Jean. What's that look for?"

I frown at the snow. "Your dad looks like he wants to eat me."

I hear Marco scoff, but he's leaned over the back seat so I can't see his face. "He looks at everyone like that the first time meeting. It's a ritualistic scaring tactic."

"Yeah, well, it's working."

Marco hops out on the ice and slams the door, locking it with a flash of lights and a honk. "You wanna go home?" He pulls me by the shirt so I'm standing just inches from his face. "Just say the word and we're out of here."

The expression he wears almost looks like he's asking me to say yes. Like he wants a reason to never come back. 

I frown deeper. "No." My ears already sting from the cold, but I shake my head anyway. "I'm toughing this one out, Bodt. I can last four days in the lions den."

Marco smirks, but his eyes do that twinkling thing they sometimes do when he talks about flying airplanes, and he tugs me closer again, wrapping his arms around me and pulling us behind the Jeep, out of the sight of anyone who might be looking at us through the panel window at the front of his house. "Oh, Daniel, my hero," he purrs, and his cheek rubs against mine. The gritty stubble from not shaving in a few days scratches my skin and I shudder at the prickly feeling as his skin moves the other way, backtracking so his face is mere centimeters from mine, his eyes hooded.

"You're doing wonderful. My mom seems to like you." Marco murmurs, and his forehead presses against mine. His breath smells like maple syrup, and my eyes roll closed. "And Lily, and Isaac, and Emily actually talk to you. That's a _very_ good sign." He all but growls playfully.

His lips taste like french toast and bacon and are the warmest thing against the cold. He leans into me with a kind of fervency I've never felt on him: something urgent and hard like he's trying to get as much out of this as he can before we have to go back inside where nothing like this ever happens between us. His hands trace up to my hips, his thumbs massaging the dip of my pelvis right through my shirt, and I hit my head on the back windshield of the Jeep.

Marco pulls away again, but rests his forehead back on mine, using his weight to press me against the cold metal frame. I want to complain about my lack of a coat, but his eyes bore soberly into me, cutting me short.

He breathes deep and smooth through his nose, the air escaping in white ribbons. "Can you promise me something?"

My breath isn't near as quiet as his, but I blame that on how blasted cold it is out here. "Yeah," I whisper, and my words are a cloud of grey vapor curling through the still air.

Marco keeps his forehead against mine, his breath mingling with mine, and twists our hands into a tight grasp in the short space between us. "Promise you'll tell me if you want to leave?" he breathes into me in an almost somber voice, "and that you won't leave me behind if you do?"

My eyes flit open. I've never heard Marco speak with so much...pleading. Never have I heard any level of real sadness in his voice, and I don't like it at all. He's always been the strong one, the level one who laughs wittingly while I complain about my family and act like some fucking art gremlin with bad ideas and a worse temper. Hearing his voice dip like that, hearing his voice  _shake_ like that is so weird and absolutely  _wrong._ It's not like Marco to not be okay with being alone, and that makes my stomach churn sickly.

I pull back just enough that I can look at him without going cross-eyed. "Hey," Marco's eyes are still closed, a line creasing the smooth surface between his brows, and I lift my free, super cold hand to cup his face. " _Hey_. Marco."

He blinks once, head leaning into my hand before looking up at me. His lips are a straight, tight line.

"I'm not going anywhere." I say in a firm voice, and hold his eyes with mine. "Especially not without you. I promise."

That has got to be the corniest line I have  _ever_ said, but, in the moment at least, I don't care. And it's true. I  _could_ leave, but I don't want to unless I have Marco next to me. And Ilse made me promise to help him stay happy while he's here. It's the least I could do to stay with him for four fucking days.

Marco is silent for a long time, still staring into me with those chocolatey brown eyes that put Michelangelo's cherubs to shame, before a small smile finally graces his lips. It doesn't reach his eyes, but they lose the dullness anyhow. "Thanks, Jean." He murmurs.

I scoff, happy to be done with this sentimental shit he's suddenly brought on. "Don't worry about it, dude."

Marco hums and leans in again for one final kiss before we have to go inside and play straight once more, but stops short just integers from my awaiting lips. An engine growls closer, tires churn over snow and gravel, and headlights skate over half of my face. I'm blinded momentarily, blinking the yellow dots from one eye, and Marco straightens up. His face is blank and unseeing as he looks just over my head at something I can't see.

The truck's engine grumbles once more, sputters, then dies. The headlights go out just as soon, and I can see two figures sitting in the front seat, but don't recognize either. The one in the driver's seat is definitely masculine, but that's about all I can see.

Marco's eyes are still blank as he slowly turns around, standing in front of me. He lets our hands hang, then drop all together. Something in his shoulders is rigid, but his voice is still cultured and unshaken.

"Mom said you'd be back soon." Marco calls as both doors are flung open. "What's up in Sina?"

My vision is cleared enough that I can see each person now, and the driver steps from the truck only to lean back in and produce a tall, gangly little girl with a mountain of unruly hair stacked on her head. He balances her on his hip and slams the door. The other person, a woman with short mousy hair and an insanely bulging belly, grabs  _another_ kid from the car, this one with a hat and puffy snowsuit on, and only about half the size of the other.

The man wears a frown, but I can tell he's trying to neutralize the expression into something more passive, and treads up to us in his snow boots. "Just a routine check-up to make sure all's well with Genny." He turns to the girl, cooing in some baby voice and rubbing their noses together, making her squeal in a way I wouldn't expect from a kid that big. He shifts her then to his other hip, and looks back to Marco with a softer expression, but I can still feel the sourness toward us. "What time did you get in?"

Marco's expression smooths out as well, and he looks over his shoulder at me. "Uh," he thinks, "around two or three this morning? We were just getting the rest of our stuff out of the car." He nods to my suitcase still sitting in the short snowbank by the Jeep.

"Hi, Marco!" The woman comes up to us, wearing an infinitely sunnier expression than her male counterpart, and I want to know how she can hold a baby on her hip with that swollen of a belly. Doesn't that kill her back? "Who's this?" She gives me a warm smile that may even outshine the one Lily gave me.

Marco grins at her and steps to the side, producing me like some prize fucking chicken. "This is my roommate, Jean. He came down with me help keep me civilized." He smiles warmly at the woman, and nods. "Jean, this is Caroline. She's married to my brother, Sebastien--" he gestures to the man still clinging tight to his too-large-to-be-held-like-that kid. "--and their daughters Imogen--" he waves to the one Sebastien holds and she giggles, "--and Katie."

Katie just stares at Marco blankly, and squirms once in her mother's grasp.

Caroline steps up almost immediately and takes my hand in hers. "It's nice to meet you, Jean!" She smiles. "I would stay and chat, but I'm afraid this one gets grumpy in the cold." She bounces Katie, who squeals and squirms again. Caroline croons something to her in a baby voice just like her husband's and treks up to the front door, still bouncing Katie on her hip.

Marco grins at Imogen and waves again. "Hey, Genny, do you remember me? Uncle Marco?" He holds his hands out to her, and Imogen laughs excitedly, reaching back for him.

But Sebastien obviously doesn't care for that idea.

He steps to the side just enough that his daughter can't touch Marco and purposely walks into the pristine, white lawn to avoid his brother. "It's cold out here." He says in a brusque voice that borders on anger. "We can't have her getting sick."

And with that Sebastien Bodt trudges through the snow with his daughter gazing longingly over his shoulder at an uncle she probably hasn't seen in upwards of a year. 

Sebastien doesn't spare so much as a glance for Marco before he shuts the door behind him.

I stare after him, my mouthing hanging open, and look at Marco. He stares at the house with his eyebrows raised to his hairline, and his eyes flit to me.

"Are you fucking serious right now?"

Marco grins and shrugs. "What? Isn't that the same 'Welcome Home' Clarice gives you?"

"What a dick."

"That's Sebastien for you."

"Is he always that  _bad_ _?_ "

"Actually he's normally not in such a good mood." Marco shrugs and smirks at me. "Must be happy to see me, I guess."

"What a _dick_."

Marco chuckles again and snags my suitcase before I can. "We should probably get inside before they organize a gay witch hunt behind our backs."

I scoff, wrapping my arms around myself to conserve whatever heat I have left, and shuffle along behind him. "We could only be so lucky."

Marco laughs a real, genuine laugh that sounds so much better than that bullshit he's been dishing out in front of his parents for the last hour and a half, and turns to face me. He swiftly gnarls one hand in the collar of my shirt, all but yanking me up to his face and crushing his lips into mine once.

"You're funny, Jean," he says smugly after pulling away, and the burning in my face is worth the smile he gives me.

Maybe...maybe that smile could be worth living with his family for the weekend, too.

Maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's right! Marco is actually the biggest slut of them all! And we love him still!
> 
>  
> 
> this is super embarrassing but...i totally forgot about this fic for a really long time. i'm trying to do better, but i won't make any promises i can't keep!
> 
> thank you, as always, for all the supportive comments!


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